


Obfuscated

by FlutterFyre



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlutterFyre/pseuds/FlutterFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Q.”</p><p>“Mmm, yes, James?”</p><p>“Q.  Focus.”</p><p> “Right.  Schedule.  Plan.  Supplies.  Got it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Once more un-beta'ed and not Brit-picked. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> 11/7/2015: ETA... I have NOT abandoned this fic. I have the next chapter complete, am halfway through the one following, and plan to finish the entire fic before I start posting again so that once I post the next chapter, the remainder will follow in a timely fashion. I'm mortified this tale has been in limbo for so long... 
> 
> 8/26/2017: Done! This fic is finally DONE!!! Time to PARTY!!!
> 
> 23/8/2015: ETA... Now with an amazing cover by @themuller! <3 <3 <3  
> Thanks for your patience!

Q took a last glance around his office to make certain he had everything they would need – tech, tools, files, and plans. It would certainly not do to leave behind something of vital import. Returning for anything was not going to be an option.

His fingers flew across the keyboard and he locked down access to his personal server. Pocketing the keys to his desk and supply cabinets, he nodded. A good locksmith – and MI6 employed plenty – could access them readily enough, but any delay combined with a lack of understanding regarding his normal organisational methods should impede full comprehension of exactly what he’d taken. If all went according to plan, it would be a few days, maybe a week before all the dots were connected. Plenty of time.

Picking up his Scrabble mug, he turned it in his hand and found himself subconsciously fondling it. A small smile turned up the corners of his mouth and his eyes closed for a brief moment as he touched the mug to his lips before putting it back on his desk decisively. The mug represented his identity as the MI6 Quartermaster. He would miss it, but taking his mug was out of the question. It would be far too obvious were it gone.

Instead he hefted his bag, manoeuvring the strap over his neck and shoulder so that the bulk of it rested against his hip, the strap reaching diagonally across his chest and back. The bag was much heavier than normal, filled with tech, tools, and a few vital half-finished projects. Even so, it was just one bag – the same bag he carried to and from Headquarters each day. No one would even look twice.

“Q”, Bond’s velvet voice murmured in his ear. A shiver slid down Q’s spine. The clarity of the newly modified, high-definition audio of the mini earwig prototypes he had been working on was excellent. It literally sounded as though Bond was standing immediately behind Q with his lips at Q’s ear. He could almost imagine he felt Bond’s breath ghost over his skin.

“Yes, James?” Q kept his voice carefully modulated and imagined Bond having a similarly visceral response. The slight catch of breath and momentary pause before Bond’s response made the scenario likely.

“En route to the Armoury.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Without looking back again, he exited and closed the door to his office, locking it as he did each night. This time, however, he activated a custom override that would lock everyone out while seeming to just be a glitch in the lock itself. Expression distracted and gaze intentionally distant, Q crossed the command centre and bullpen. With any luck, no one would interrupt his progress. He was almost to the main door when Ruksana called out, “Q?”

Fighting to conceal his alarm, Q turned a carefully impassive and slightly irritated face to her. “Yes, Ruksana?”

“Should I be expecting 007? He’s scheduled to leave on mission to Myanmar tonight.” Her dark eyes were wide and gleamed with excitement at the prospect of interacting with MI6’s most notorious Double O. Q could hardly blame her for the reaction; after all, Bond was almost exclusively handled by Q and had been for months, to hell with regulations regarding conflicts of interest. Work was work. Their personal life was something else entirely.

Q knew he had to be cautious in how he replied. Ruksana was a sharp tech and a fast learner, her quick mind easily able to keep up with Q’s more esoteric explanations and designs. He would miss their discussions. Like most of the female population of MI6 though, Ruksana had a bit of a crush on Agent 007. Early on Q had felt threatened by the sheer size of the pool of ‘competition,’ but then he realised there was no competition after all. Apart from the occasional courteous smile or mild flirting to obtain a favour, Bond rarely even looked twice at anyone but Q.

Pressing his mouth in a thin line, Q shook his head, almost sorry to shatter her dreams. “I’m afraid not. I’m heading over to meet with him now. I have his mission kit.” Q patted his bag and gave her a quirked smile before turning once more to leave. He needed to get out of there before his nerves got the better of him and he royally buggered everything.

“Good night, Ruksana. You have the con.”

~~~~~

Bond was leaning casually against the wall next to the door to the Armoury, his bespoke suit looking like he had just left his tailor rather than having put in what was easily a ten hour workday. Q’s breath caught. _How did he do that?_

Self-consciously, Q dragged his fingers through the unruly locks of hair that poked out every which way from his own head and marvelled once again that luck or fate or whatever – probably Tanner, if he was perfectly honest – had caused his path and Bond’s to cross at the National Gallery that day. Tugging at the hem of his buttoned cardigan Q wished, not for the first time, that his look were more polished and that he and Bond together didn’t constantly look like a spectacularly mismatched blind date.

A smile curved Bond’s mouth as he watched Q’s discomfited approach and he pushed off the wall to step directly into Q’s path. 

Warm hands cupped Q’s face as Bond’s lips assaulted his and Bond’s body backed Q against the wall. He snogged Q until his eyes fell closed and all coherent thoughts fled Q’s overactive brain.

Tongues tangled and teeth nipped, soft moans echoed in the empty hall. Q couldn’t say whose moans they were. Most likely they were his; Bond had a tendency to draw them unwittingly from him. It was a talent, really – one Q was more than willing to let Bond practise to perfection, so long as he didn’t stop. When Bond pulled back, Q followed instinctively, lips parted and eyes still closed, seeking to further the sensual pleasure that kissing Bond always was.

“Q.”

“Mmm, yes, James?”

“Q. Focus.”

Unwillingly Q pulled himself back to focus on the reality of why they were standing here outside the Armoury. “Right. Schedule. Plan. Supplies. Got it.”

Swaying slightly and still somewhat off-balance, Q turned to disengage a complicated series of locks that included a swipe of his ID badge, thumb and retinal scans, voice recognition, and finished with an eleven digit code entered on the numeric keypad. As the door’s locking mechanism released with a series of audible clicks, Q grinned at the expression of stunned disbelief on Bond’s face.

“Seriously, Q? Don’t you think that might be…I don’t know…overkill?”

“That depends on if we want to access my latest and greatest, now doesn’t it?” Q pushed the door open, tilting his head and motioning for Bond to precede him.

Raising an eyebrow, Bond picked up the duffel at his feet and stepped inside.

The motion-activated lights came up as Bond entered. He stopped a few steps in, turning and looking expectantly at the brushed steel cabinets that lined the walls. Q ignored the cabinets he normally used to outfit his agents for missions and stepped around Bond to lead the way to the workbench along the back wall.

Effortlessly raising the top of the workbench Q revealed a compartment filled with cases similar to the one he had given Bond that long-ago day at the National Gallery. This was where he kept his newest inventions before they became standard fare for use in the field. No one else was even aware of this treasure trove.

Already knowing what was in each case intimately, Q didn’t even pause before he began selecting different cases and handing them to Bond. When Bond hesitated over the first one, clearly wanting to look inside, Q placed a hand over Bond’s, preventing him from opening the case.

“Not here,” he said softly and looked meaningfully at the duffel bag, once again sitting at Bond’s feet.

Bond nodded silently and started loading the duffel.

Holding one last case, Q closed the workbench top, a slight hydraulic hiss sounding as the lock sealed once more. Q opened his bag and slid the last case inside, withdrawing a sealed envelope. Securing the bag’s fasteners once more, he looked soberly at Bond, who was zipping the now mostly full duffel. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Bond easily hefted the duffel in his left hand and Q was reminded yet again of the strength of this man. His man. Bond stared at Q for a moment, then. “Are you sure—?”

Q cut him off with a kiss, his tongue teasing its way inside Bond’s mouth for a last lingering taste. Regretfully, Q ended the kiss and stepped back. “I’m sure. Anyway, it’s done. We need to go. _Now_ ,” he emphasised.

A frown flickered across Bond’s face and then was gone.

Q pressed the envelope into Bond’s hand and gave him a brief smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes. “Your tickets and IDs, James. I’ll see you soon.”

Bond returned Q’s smile precisely, all emotion now locked away. “Take care, Q.”

Q opened the Armoury door once more and exited after Bond, stopping just outside the door to ensure the locks had reengaged properly. By the time he looked up again, Q was alone in the hallway, Bond having vanished silently. A butterfly of unease flickered in the vicinity of Q’s stomach. He squashed it and pulled his tablet out as he started for the lifts.

As he walked, Q accessed the MI6 CCTV network and replaced the Armoury and hallway footage records with the loops he had edited earlier in the day, eradicating all trace of his and Bond’s visit. By the time he stepped onto the arriving lift, Q was certain no one would be able to tell the videos had been altered. There were definite benefits to being the most technologically gifted person at MI6.

Fifteen minutes later Q was outside, on the street walking away from MI6 towards the Vauxhall Tube station and the carefully cultivated anonymity beyond.

Really, MI6 had been a good run while it lasted.

~~~~~


	2. Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more un-beta'ed and not Brit-picked. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

No one – not a single person – even glanced at the heavily-laden duffel bag Bond carried as he passed the guards and exited to the carpark. Agents, especially Double Os, regularly carried a variety of gear and supplies with them as they headed out for missions. Of course, none of what Bond carried was relevant for his currently scheduled mission to Myanmar, but no one knew that except for Bond and Q, and perhaps Tanner and M, not that either of the latter were around.

Bond swallowed a laugh at the thought. His scheduled mission was so ordinary as to be the very definition of boring – a gun and radio were issued only as a matter of course.

Irrelevant.

Someone else would end up with that dull reconnaissance assignment – someone not him. And someone else would undoubtedly be assigned the not-so-dull mission of determining what had happened to James Bond, Agent 007, once his absence was noted.

As he walked through the garage to his personal car, Bond pushed away the sense of unease that accompanied him. He was lying to both himself and Q if he pretended he didn’t have reservations about what they were doing, but there was simply no other option. This was beyond risky, and even that hyperbole might be an understatement. Putting Q at risk went against every personal and professional instinct Bond had, but they had discussed the situation and possible plans ad infinitum and Q was adamant. Every one of the plans hinged on the two of them acting as an united team. Indivisible. Yes, they successfully did that every day with Q safely ensconced deep within MI6, inside of Q Branch, but that was not an option any more. And at the moment, there was no alternative secure lair for Q, though he did promise to create one.

Bond shook his head to chase the doubts away. In order to keep Q safe, he needed to stay one hundred per cent invested in the plan. He needed to stay focused and not get distracted.

Hitting the remote to open the boot, Bond deposited the duffel alongside his suitcase and Q’s large, overstuffed rucksack. He burned with the desire to know what was in the cases Q had entrusted to him, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place to investigate. Whatever Q had included, he had chosen for a reason that he would share when the time was right. Regardless, Bond knew Q was often so brilliant in his clever designs that his presence was needed to determine the best possible use of new toys. Bond was smart, but Q was a genius in the purest sense of the word – half brilliance, half madness. Pushing back his pointless curiosity, he instead grabbed the mid-sized carry-on he had packed that morning.

“Bond!” Years of field work channelled the adrenaline spike from hearing his name unexpectedly called from across the garage. Recognising the voice, he hardly flinched. Closing the boot, he set the carry-on bag inside, on the backseat, before turning with a smile warming his face.

“Hey there, Alec.” Moving smoothly, he walked toward his oldest friend, meeting him halfway and enveloping him in a quick but fierce bear hug. This man was the brother Bond had never had. They had fought, both each other and as compatriots. They had both killed for the other and nearly died together more than once. As he released Alec, Bond swallowed the words he wanted to say and said instead, “You nearly missed me.”

Alec Trevelyan returned the embrace before stepping back, hands gripping Bond’s forearms as sharp eyes dissected Bond. Meeting his gaze steadily, Bond knew he could not flinch. Could show no weakness whatsoever. He and Alec had known one another more than half their lives and with such familiarity came the often uncanny ability to practically read each other’s minds. Not exactly a useful skill at the moment.

“What? Is M sending you out again already?”

“Already? Bloody hell, I’ve been sitting on my arse for almost a month. Unlike _some_ people.” Bond arched an eyebrow at Alec. Not that Bond was actually complaining about the enforced downtime. It had given him unprecedented time with Q following months of sporadically seeing his partner for random and infrequent bouts of a few days, or sometimes even just a few hours at a time. The time at home had proven exceptionally useful in the end, as they had spent much of the last week planning. And thanks to a month of intensive training, he was in the best physical shape he’d been since exiting his twenties.

Alec’s eyes narrowed and he frowned, probably at the reminder of his own recent multi-month assignment in the field, though possibly at something is Bond’s tone. Glancing about the garage, he grumbled under his breath about ‘too bloody long’ before looking steadily back at Bond.

“I swear it’s been half a year since we’ve both been in London long enough to catch up. I was hoping to hear how you’re adjusting to domestic bliss. Though to be honest, I never saw you as the relationship type. Vesper was a surprise and since her—” Alec’s voice cut off and his previously narrowed eyes widened as he realised he had quite unintentionally trespassed into normally forbidden territory. It had indeed been too long. He dropped his hands and stepped back. “Fuck, James. I’m sorry.”

Bond didn’t even flinch at the mention of Vesper. Recently he had been thinking that he might finally be over her; here was proof positive. “It’s okay, Alec. Really it is. Vesper is my past. Q is my now.”

Slowly nodding, Alec opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times before words emerged. “Domestic bliss must be pretty fucking amazing then."

Bond noticed how Alec pointedly ignored his refusal to speak of Q being his future. They were both experienced Double O agents, a profession that did not lend itself to retirement or future planning. Any day they returned from a mission was a good day. Rather like today for Alec.

“He makes me happy, Alec.”

Unnamed emotion flickered across Alec’s face before his trademark charming smile flashed. He glanced away, eyes flickering once more around the mostly empty garage. “That’s great, James. So, hey, I need to head on in. M contacted me when I landed and stayed specifically to debrief me tonight, God knows why. Maybe we’ll get together once you’re back, yeah? What do you say to dinner? You can even bring your pretty quartermaster. If you’re going to keep him, I should probably get to know him outside of Q Branch.”

Bond swallowed past the regret that suddenly clogged his throat and forced what he knew was an overly bright smile. “Sure. That would be great, Alec. And welcome back.”

Alec’s eyes narrowed further but all he said was, “Thanks, James. Kick some arse out there!” With a quick grin and a jaunty wave, he turned and strolled toward the MI6 entrance.

Bond watched until he turned the corner but Alec never looked back. It was time for Bond to do the same.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Bond turned the engine over, appreciating the smooth, well-tuned purr. As he drove away from Headquarters, he was leaving behind well over a decade of his life. His career at MI6 meant more to him than almost anything. Nearly two decades of service to Queen and country. He was not pleased at the knowledge of what his and Q’s actions would surely prompt. However, it changed nothing.

Life was about to become both more complicated and more dangerous than ever before and his support resources were going to be changed dramatically as well. Sure, he’d still have Q watching his back as always. The challenge would come from those who would be targeting both of them from this point on and the fact that they would only have one another for back up.

It would be enough.

It had to be.

~~~~~

“James?” As if summoned from his thoughts, Q was in his ear once more. Bond merged onto the M4, heading for Heathrow as he answered.

“Yes, Q?”

“How are you?” _Of bloody course_. Q had overheard his encounter with Alec.

“A few minutes delayed but I should still be there by departure, no problem.”

“That wasn’t what I asked and you bloody well know it, you wanker.” Q’s coolly modulated voice, gently chiding, was a balm on Bond’s soul. Even so, his throat was tight when he finally answered.

“I’ll be fine, Q. I just wasn't expecting to encounter Alec. He’s been in the field so long…” Bond’s voice trailed off, a sign of his distress.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. I thought we’d be gone before he actually returned to HQ.” There was a pause and then Q continued, his voice soft and seemingly full of regret. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bond growled. He shoved the memory of Alec’s charming smile aside. Much as he had indicated to Alec earlier, it was pointless to dwell on things past. “Doesn’t matter, in any event.”

“Very well, James. Safe travels.”

“You too, Q. You too.”

~~~~~

Upon arrival at Heathrow, Bond parked and left the bags in the boot of the car. Their bags would be secure for now but would need to be retrieved later. Taking the single carry-on, he checked in for his flight and went through security to his departure gate. Once there, he slipped a dummy MI6 phone Q had rigged with Bond's currently assigned and active tracker into the bag of a fellow passenger. Presenting his ticket to Yangon, he entered the aerobridge, ducking out before actually boarding the aeroplane and crossing the tarmac to make his way back into the terminal.

A quick change in the toilet later and Bond blended seamlessly with the hundreds of other passengers, mostly tourists. Mingling, he worked his way to Baggage Reclaim and then to the Heathrow Connector station to anonymously return to the city.

He had many things to accomplish and places to be before his intended flight landed without him in Myanmar.

~~~~~


	3. Circumstances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally beta'ed, thanks to the fabulous viklikesfic! Still not Brit-picked. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

_Frack_. Q pulled off his glasses, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. The echo of Bond’s parting words, the rough intensity of his voice, just before he had tapped the earwig to kill their connection stayed with him. Even after his encounter with Alec, it sounded like Bond was more focused on Q’s safety than on his own emotions. Then again, that usually was how Bond dealt with any emotion that caused him to feel vulnerable – he redirected his attention away from whatever or whoever made him uncomfortable.

_Bloody buggering hell._ Q had known this would be far harder on Bond than himself. Damn this situation. Damn this plan. Thrice-damn the circumstances that brought them here. And while he was at it, damn 006 and his lousy timing for arrival back at HQ. Everything just became a hundred times more complicated thanks to that little reunion in the garage. Why had M insisted 006 report in to HQ tonight?

Bond hadn’t been pleased with the plan from the start and Q felt somewhat guilty about essentially strong-arming Bond into joining him on this misadventure. After all, his career at MI6 was one of the few things remaining things in his life Bond cherished. Well his career, Alec, and Q. Now of those, all he had was Q. The thought was frankly quite terrifying. Although if Q was being honest with himself, it was also more than a little thrilling.

Even so, Q was not so selfish as to wish pain on Bond. If there had been any other option at all…

Forcing himself to take a deep breath and let go of remnant regrets over past decisions, Q ignored the frantic, caffeine-fueled energy of the coffee shop around him. He focused on the laptop screen in front of him and watched via Heathrow’s CCTV system as Bond made his way through the airport. It was stunning really, how ninja-like the man could be. No one even looked twice as he left the aerobridge and crossed the tarmac to the service entrance and back into the terminal. And when Bond emerged from changing clothes, Q hardly recognised him.

Once he was convinced that no one was paying Bond any mind, Q packed up his laptop and drained the last of his now-cold tea. It was time to hire a car and retrieve their bags from the boot of Bond’s car at Heathrow before heading south.

~~~~~

Q had stored the bags below decks and double-checked the laid in supplies and fuel. They only needed enough to last a few days as they could stop at any number of ports for more, but just in case Q made sure there was easily enough for two weeks. The gentle sway of the floor took getting used to and Q was devoutly hoping he would not get seasick.

Given Q’s rather primal aversion to flying, he had to be creative regarding how they would leave the country. Sure Bond could have left on his scheduled flight to Myanmar and diverted en route, but Q was _not_ getting on an aeroplane – any aeroplane – by himself. Full stop. End of story. Leaving the UK by train or car risked passing through the Border Agency checkpoints, and even with the excellent papers Q had provided, the sheer number of eyes and cameras would pose risks they would rather avoid.

The solution was once again found in Bond’s past and was ridiculously simple to implement. Bond was a sailor, so Q acquired a 9 metre sailboat and they would sail away. Among the equipment he had brought from MI6 were components that would enable him to access the internet via satellite to maintain their security, monitor communications, and plan next actions. Once they were able to settle in a safe location, the next phase of their plan could commence.

Q glanced at the clock tucked discretely out of the elements and realised he was running out of time. Securing access to below, Q pulled the car key from his pocket. He wanted to return the car to the agency and then erase all traces of himself from the database. The fewer loose ends he left, the less likely MI6 would uncover their trail. Ruksana may be good, but Q was better. He knew what he would look for in her place and planned to leave no markers for her to follow to find him.

A slight hollow feeling opened in his chest as he chased that train of thought but he shoved it determinedly away and headed back up the pier to where he had left the car.

~~~~~

It was almost full dark when Q returned to his boat’s berth in the Brighton Marina. Moving cautiously along the pier, he was grateful for the light from the full moon augmenting the Marina’s lighting. He paid close attention to the dark edges of the walkway even as he cursed his own short-sightedness for not carrying a torch. He really was going to have to rethink basic necessities to keep at hand now that he was not in the heart of London, essentially living at MI6.

Q climbed aboard and fumbled briefly with the mechanical lock. He needed to look into upgrading and replacing it with a more secure electronic one; thus far there had just been no time. Perhaps tomorrow after Bond arrived. Once they were at sea there would be few distractions.

Preoccupied by that train of thought as he entered the main cabin, Q fumbled for the light switch. He blinked in the sudden brightness and froze as he noticed the Walther in Bond’s hand aimed at his head.

“Bloody hell, Bond! Point that thing somewhere else!” Q’s voice, normally so cool, calm, and commanding, came out a startled squeak instead even as Bond lowered the weapon to his side.

A lopsided grin curved Bond’s lips. He was dishevelled for once, looking like he had just rolled out of bed. He probably had, Q realised, which accounted for the lack of lights prior to his arrival. Q’s gaze slipped past Bond to the sleeping quarters beyond. Hmm, Bond in bed – now there was a thought.

The teasing irritation in Bond’s voice drew Q back to the here and now. “You should have announced yourself. I nearly shot you.”

Q lifted an eyebrow. “You were expecting a pronouncement of ‘Honey, I’m home’? You weren’t due to arrive until tomorrow.” He knew he sounded snippy but he couldn’t stop himself. He hated staring down the barrel of one of his own weapons.

Bond shrugged. “Well, if you want me to leave…”

He turned back to the sleeping quarters where presumably his clothes were. That was when Q finally clued into the fact that Bond had been standing there confronting him in nothing but his pants. Damn, but the man had a nice arse.

His next realisation was that Bond might be _leaving_. Q promptly followed.

“No. No, no, no. I did _not_ say that. Bond – James –, don’t you dare!” Q reached for Bond’s arm only to find himself suddenly sprawled on his back on the bed, Bond looming over him. The tiny cabin seemed even smaller with Bond present.

“Don’t dare what?” In the half light from the main cabin Q could just see a dangerous glint in Bond’s eyes. There was a soft _thunk_ as Bond’s Walther was set on a shelf built into the hull above the bed.

“Leave. Don’t you dare leave.” Reaching up, Q’s fingers hooked over Bond’s shoulders and pulled himself up as he tugged the bigger man down to capture Bond’s mouth with his. Nearly frantic at the idea haunting him since the day before – that Bond might choose to walk away rather than continue – Q licked and nipped and tempted and teased with tongue and teeth alike. Surely it was just exhaustion and emotion causing confusion and miscommunication and Bond wasn’t really going anywhere.

Breaking for breath, Q whispered, “Please don’t leave.”

A low growl seemed to emanate from Bond’s chest and he grasped Q’s wrists and pressed them against the mattress above Q’s head where he held them with no apparent effort. There was a slightly quizzical expression on his face. “Leave? Not hardly.”

Bond crawled onto the bed and straddled Q’s hips, effectively trapping the younger man. Not that Q minded as his brain shifted into neutral, fear and agitation fading as his synapses began to misfire. Bond didn’t help matters – or maybe he did – as he bent forward and nuzzled Q’s neck. “I just got here. Couldn’t stay away.”

Q’s hips jerked, pushing his pelvis up into Bond’s. Bond was every bit as hard as Q. He moved Q’s wrists closer together and shifted his grip to hold both wrists in one hand. His free hand cupped Q’s jaw, holding him immobile as Bond’s lips hovered over Q’s. Two words escaped harshly before Bond’s mouth closed over Q’s, the words echoing Q’s thoughts perfectly.

“Need you.”

~~~~~


	4. Awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more un-beta'ed and not Brit-picked. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Much love to all who have commented, kudoed or bookmarked!

Early morning sunlight reflected off the water and into the cabin as Bond woke to the gentle rocking of the boat. Q had somehow managed to tuck his head and upper body as snugly as he could against Bond’s side while sprawling his legs to occupy the remainder of the bed.

Bond blinked and looked around the sleeping berth for a clock but if there was one, it was well hidden. In the end he let his sailor instincts take over – if the sun was up, he probably should be as well. He needed to confirm that all was ready for them to cast off. The longer they remained in England, the greater the risk. Especially given that their original plans had not taken 006’s return into account.

Alec. Bond’s jaw tightened as he remembered their brief reunion in the garage at MI6. He had intentionally limited his consideration of Alec as they had planned this out. Given that 006 had been on a long-term assignment in the field, it had been easy to focus on the idea of Alec not learning anything until it was far too late for him to do anything. But now he was back and would almost undoubtedly be haunting Q Branch to see how Bond’s mission in Myanmar was going. The likelihood of their disappearance being noted sooner rather than later had increased dramatically.

Bond shifted, untangling himself from Q’s slumbering embrace. As he moved away, Q grumbled and scooted across the sheets in an attempt to reattach to Bond.

“Shh, Q. I need to get the boat ready to leave. You sleep.” Inspired, he put his pillow in the space he had just vacated. Immediately Q pulled it close, pressing his face into it before settling back into sleep once more. Bond’s lips curved into a smile as he watched. The trust exhibited by how deeply Q slept in his presence never failed to stir something warm deep inside Bond’s chest.

Shelving further thoughts of Alec, Bond pulled on jeans, vest and a jumper before heading topside to see to the business of safely transporting his quartermaster away from England.

It appeared that despite not being a sailor, Q had thoroughly done his research. Truly Bond was not surprised. After all, Q always managed to ensure his agents were as equipped as they needed to be for any given mission, in any circumstance imaginable. Bond did not doubt Q viewed this excursion just as he would any other mission. If only Bond could do.

Having confirmed the water and fuel tanks were full and the batteries completely charged, Bond used the small galley facilities to prepare coffee. Pleased to discover a limited supply of fresh eggs and sausages, he fried them up and toasted bread. Tea was steeped and he was plating the food when Q stumbled in from the sleeping berth, the sheet wrapped about him, half-toga, half-cape. Rubbing his eyes and with his hair sticking up every which way, Q looked a good ten years younger than Bond knew him to be.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Bond greeted him with a kiss to the temple, pressing a travel mug of tea into Q’s hand.

“Murpfle,” Q muttered incoherently, eyes barely open. He took what was first a cautious sip but quickly became a deep swallow from the mug as he found the liquid caffeine had cooled just enough as to not scald his tongue.

Bond pointed at the breakfast laid out on the table. “Sit. Eat. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

~~~~~

Four nights into their journey Bond was lying sleepless next to a very soundly sleeping Q. He envied the younger man his unconscious state. By all rights, Bond should be sleeping too especially given how little he had actually slept since this had all began. Add to that the fact that he was sailing the boat single-handedly. Sailing, while not overly strenuous in and of itself, was normally physical enough to encourage the body to sleep. Unfortunately the problem was not physical but rather that his brain would not quiet itself enough to allow Bond more than a very few hours of sleep each night.

Tonight, his ‘Double O’ sense – the carefully honed instincts that kept him alive in the field time and again – was alerting him that something was wrong and yet none of Q’s warning systems indicated there was another vessel in their vicinity. Similarly there was no bad weather forecast for anywhere remotely near their current location or even along their route for the next several days. Even so, Bond had no doubt. Something was wrong.

Slipping out of bed, Bond escaped to the main cabin. He settled in front of the laptop Q had configured via satellite to provide them with an anonymous window to the world. Bond was not so foolish as to try to hack MI6 – he’d leave that to Q. However, there was a little-used email account he had established more than a decade before. Only one other living person was aware of its existence and Bond strongly suspected an email awaited his attention.

He was mistaken. There were three.

The sender’s address was clearly false, but Bond knew who they were from. He opened the first one, dated the day after they had left England.

_**Subject:** WTF_

_What is going on? Please tell me you have a bloody good reason for this disappearing act._

_You know what happens next._

Bond could envision the concern on Alec’s face as he sought to understand what was going on. He could even hear the hint of fear and betrayal in the tone of Alec’s words. Alec, who must have been nearly desperate to write Bond seeking an explanation – a reason – to stop the coming storm.

_Stop it._ Taking a deep breath, Bond shook his head to chase away the image of Alec walking away from him in the MI6 garage. Steeling himself, he opened the second email, sent two days after the first. It was immediately clear Alec was frustrated by Bond’s failure to respond.

_**Subject:** RE: WTF_

_Damn it to Hell! Answer me. Don’t make me do this because you know I WILL._

Alec would indeed. Nothing would stop him. Not shared history. Not friendship. Not even brotherhood. Bond knew it in his bones because it was the same for him. _Nothing_ came before Queen and Country.

There was an indescribable tightness in his chest when he opened the third email from only a few hours before.

_**Subject:** RE: RE: WTF_

_Fuck you._

Bond blinked. Of course. He had expected nothing less. Bond’s mouth curved into a smile but there was no warmth in it. So there it was. As he had expected all along. At least one Double O was now hunting them.

He was still sitting there, staring at those two words, several hours later as the sun rose over the southeastern horizon.

~~~~~

Bond was lying next to Q, enjoying the gentle sway of the boat as he tried to forget the bombshell Q had laid on him over lunch.

_”It’s official.” Q’s expression was inscrutable._

_Bond’s hackles rose in response. “What do you mean?”_

_“We’ve been blacklisted at MI6 as defectors.” Q waved a long-fingered hand towards the laptop sitting at the end of the small table. “I saw the executive report along with the warning that went to GCHQ and MI5 advising them to increase cyber countermeasures. There was also an alert sent to CIA, CSIS and ASIS advising them to be on the lookout for us, though that notice did not state why.”_

_Carefully controlling his expression, Bond simply nodded. Official indeed._

Fugitive. Traitor. These were not terms Bond had ever expected to apply to himself.

He felt his teeth start to grind and the muscles in his shoulders, chest and abdomen tense. Reflexively, the arm wrapped around Q tightened and he realised that he would wake Q if he tried to stay in bed any longer.

However, before he could extricate himself from Q’s long-limbed embrace, the tousled dark head on his chest rose and Bond was staring into the sleepy gaze of his partner. Q met his eyes for a long moment, reading Bond despite having only just woken before leaning up to press his lips to Bond’s. “Don’t,” he murmured, his mouth moving, tongue tracing over Bond’s slightly chapped lips.

“Please stop torturing yourself, James.”

Lifting a hand to brush over Bond’s chest, Q’s fingers teased the soft tufts of hair, barely touching them, but sending almost electric shivers through Bond via hundreds of hairs and associated nerve-endings. Gradually the ultra-light touches made their way down Bond’s abdomen, continuing the tender torment. Bond’s cock twitched as it hardened, eager to greet Q’s taunting touch and Bond shifted his hips, all thoughts of leaving the bed – and Q – vanquished.

Bond groaned as Q’s fingers slid slowly across the very tip of his cock, smearing pre-come before gliding slickly down the shaft which was tight and aching for more attention than Q was currently giving it. Bond lifted his hips, striving to encourage a firmer touch. Q laughed low in response, fingers now moving around the base of Bond’s cock to brush over his balls. Trimmed nails gently scraped along Bond’s perineum, the slight sharp pressure more than getting Bond’s full attention.

Unable to remain still a moment longer, Bond lifted his hand to tangle in Q’s messy locks, holding Q in place as Bond took control of their kiss, his tongue invading Q’s mouth as he sucked and nipped at Q’s soft lips. As he took control of the kiss, Bond likewise took control of Q, rolling them both over until he had the younger man trapped beneath him, hand imprisoned alongside their cocks.

Straddling Q’s hips, Bond rose to his knees and shifted so that his mouth could follow the sharp edge of Q’s jaw, teeth dragging over the sensitive skin, grazing longer stubble resulting from less frequent shaves. Q’s breath hitched and he released a groan of his own, his hand twisting and closing over both their cocks, pressing them together. A moment’s fumble at the built-in shelf and Bond handed the small bottle of lubricant to Q. “Here.”

The heat of Q’s hand vanished as Bond began tasting, sucking and nibbling his way down the side of Q’s neck. When it returned, the cool, slick feel of long fingers wrapping around him made Bond hiss in pleasure, especially as they pulled and twisted, gently but insistently sliding the smooth hardness of their cocks together, the slippery friction becoming almost unbearable. Bond felt a coil of tension at the small of his back and his balls tightened.

Almost frantic, his mouth sought Q’s once more, nipping and licking with fervour as the world went white behind his closed eyelids.

~~~~~


	5. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed, thanks to the amazing mistflyer1102! Still not Brit-picked. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Q opened his eyes to the delicious expanse of Bond’s chest. For a change, he had awoken before the normally vigilant agent. Careful to neither change his breathing patterns nor move, Q enjoyed the beat of Bond’s heart beneath his ear and fingertips. He wanted to let Bond sleep as long as possible, fully aware that the older man had been sleeping fitfully at best since they had left England.

Granted, Bond tended towards intermittent sleep before, but even then he tended to get at least four hours uninterrupted. These days, it was rare for Bond to sleep more than three hours at a stretch and that was on a good night. The past three nights had been far from good and Q was increasingly amazed Bond was even functional.

The knowledge that 006 was now hunting them was tearing Bond apart for all that he would not talk about it. He had looked up from the laptop two mornings before when Q had exited the sleeping berth. His eyes were empty as he said that Alec was coming for them. He refused to discuss it further, but the remainder of the day, whenever he thought Q was not looking, Bond looked _devastated_.

A little bit of digging through the browser history on the laptop later that day and Q discovered an email account he hadn’t known about. Three emails – Q believed they were from Alec, given Bond’s warning – had been succinct and quite bitter. A friendship decades in the making was dissolving. No wonder Bond looked like shite.

It was consequently no real surprise Bond was on edge and not sleeping. Q was well aware of just how effective 006 was on mission – Q had guided him through enough. Clearly, hunting them was now Alec’s mission. He tried to tell himself that at least 006 would not have his support this time, though Ruksana’s support might well be enough. And she was likely a fair bit irritated herself. After all, with Q gone, the responsibility of being Quartermaster, along with associated headaches and paperwork would have fallen on her slight shoulders. Q felt bad but he knew any guilt he felt over Ruksana was negligible compared to what Bond was experiencing over Alec. Not that it was a contest. For a moment, Q considered whether it was worth it to infiltrate Ruksana’s system to see if she was aiding 006, but in the end he didn’t want to risk compromising any critical missions MI6 might be running.

Q pulled his wayward mind back to the here and now. What was done was done. To stay alive and free, he needed to remain focused on what was happening today and deduce what was likely to happen tomorrow and the days that followed.

Yesterday’s discovery that they had effectively been named traitors and fugitives had not been at all unexpected. If anything, Q had been surprised it had taken so long. For Bond though, the official word had been a knee to the groin and Q knew it haunted him.

At least Q had been able to keep Bond in bed last night. He smiled at the memory, playing once more with the soft blond fur on Bond’s abdomen. Bond shifted but didn’t wake; an indication of just how exhausted he was.

Meanwhile Q was wide awake. While he didn’t want to climb over Bond to exit the bed, he could certainly make plans. They should be arriving at Valletta, Malta by late afternoon. There was a flat waiting for them – an MI6 safe house there Q had made certain never made it onto the official list. So long as they maintained reasonable vigilance regarding security, they should be safe.

He was looking forward to setting up the security and establishing a base of operations. While he could not hope to rival the command centre in Q Branch, Q was confident that he would be able to set up a system that would enable him to safely hack into any system and still hide in obscurity. He would be able to fully support Bond in any way Bond might require.

A subtle shift in Bond’s breathing pattern signalled he was waking. Q lifted his head and met Bond’s blue gaze. Without speaking, he leaned up and softly, almost primly, kissed Bond’s lips. Bond’s hand tangled in Q’s hair as he held Q in place, deepening the kiss; mouths devouring, morning breath be damned. As Q relaxed into the snog, the rough brush of stubble along Bond’s jaw was as electrifying as Bond’s kiss.

Coming up for air, he smiled at his lover. “Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, love.” Bond smiled back, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes and Q felt a sharp spike of relief.

It was too early to know with certainty, but maybe this morning signalled a shift in Bond’s mood. Q certainly hoped so, as he was rapidly running out of ideas to try to improve the situation. They had some serious business to attend to once they settled into their new flat and both needed to be focused and spot on.

Pressing another quick kiss to Q’s lips, Bond slowly sat up, his abdominal muscles contracting into sharp relief as he tugged Q halfway onto his lap for a more leisurely snog. Q slowly dragged his nails across Bond’s shoulders and down his biceps. A groan escaped Bond’s throat, the sound stirring something primal in Q. This was his lover. His man. His _James_.

His hands traced a path back up Bond’s back, the fingers of one idly playing with the short hairs at the nape of Bond’s neck, the other moving to cup Bond’s jaw. Reluctantly, Q ended the impromptu snog session, interspersing his sentences with quick kisses. “Today we arrive in Malta. The relatively dense population should make it simple to blend in. A flat has been acquired, though we will need provisions as well as supplies to set up operational support and security.”

“Ever my Quartermaster,” Bond murmured with approval, his lips travelling along Q’s jaw and down his throat.

Q smiled at him. “Of course, James. Though honestly, I just want us to have a base of operations as quickly as possible. We have much work to do to establish ourselves.”

Bond pulled back, eyes narrowing as he stared intently at Q. “I want us to have a _secure_ base. I don’t give a damn about anything else. I’m not going anywhere until I’m comfortable you will be safe in my absence.”

Taking advantage of Bond’s momentary distraction, Q slipped off his lap and out of the bed. He located clean pants and stepped into them before digging out a t-shirt and jeans. “Then I will have to work quickly because we’ve already had a number of queries.”

A sharp slap to his arse startled him and he yelped before turning to glare as though the force of his stare might do anything at all to the deadly man still lounging abed.

Bond just smiled, offering his most charming, innocent expression in response. “What, no threat?”

Growling low in his throat, Q knew Bond had him by the bollocks. His usual threat to ruin Bond’s credit rating or bank account access was meaningless. Undoubtedly MI6 had already done it for both of the fugitives. Not that Q couldn’t get around it, but why bother? They each had solid alternate identities, complete with access to more money than they could possibly use even given their combined expensive tastes. There was no point in threatening Bond’s pseudonym; at the moment it was as necessary as Q’s, and Bond knew it.

Pointedly not acknowledging the smirk on Bond’s face, Q pulled on jeans and wrestled into the t-shirt as he exited to the main cabin. When Bond joined him minutes later, water was heating in the kettle and Q’s nose was buried in his laptop, looking to see if any interesting requests for services had been submitted. Bond started making coffee in the cafetiere when something caught Q’s attention. This could be opening they’d hoped for.

Taking a deep breath, Q fought the urge to jump up and pace the tiny cabin. Even so, Bond turned, met Q’s eyes, and stilled, all joking gone from his face. “Well?”

Q knew the excitement he was feeling was reflected on his face. Hell, even in the dimness of the cabin, he could see it in Bond’s eyes.

“Priority one: after we arrive, we have to get everything set up and the flat secured immediately. We – or rather you – have a job.”

~~~~~

“Are you certain this assignment is necessary?” Not quite three weeks on the job and Bond sounded bored – never a good thing. Indeed, such a state often preceded some exceptionally hazardous activity that damaged either Bond or equipment. Q paused and pulled his attention back from an effort to bypass the newly updated MI6 firewalls.

“Bond, _do not_ lose or damage your equipment. These earwigs are prototypes and I have neither the materials nor specialised tools to replace them. If anything happens to your earwig, you will no longer have the joy of the dulcet tones of my voice in your ear. Do you understand? Bond?”

“What are you wearing?” Bond’s voice dropped at least an octave, sending a shiver all the way to the base of Q’s spine. Given his visceral response, Q questioned the wisdom behind absconding from MI6 with the high definition prototype earwigs. Even after nearly a month of use, he still expected to be able to turn around and find Bond right _there_ when he spoke in Q’s ear. The fact Bond was intentionally trying to seduce Q didn’t help. At all.

“Bond.” Q focussed all the disapproval he could muster into that one syllable. Not that he expected it to do any good, so he added, “Behave.”

“I am behaving, Q.”

“True. You’re behaving _badly_ ”

Bond chuckled darkly and Q visualised a rueful grin on his rugged face. Some days it was like dealing with a small child, or perhaps a rebellious adolescent. Q shook his head at the mental image as his fingers and focus returned to the problem of the firewall. A few minutes later, he was past the final barrier and inside the servers, accessing files and databases alike. He was looking for details on their latest client, a not-so-small cog in international gun and information trafficking.

Hired as a physical security specialist and bodyguard, Bond had saved the client’s life no less than three times in just two weeks. Despite being wealthy and powerful, it appeared their client could benefit from a copy of the iconic book, _How to Win Friends and Influence People_. Then again, guns tended to influence people just fine. They just didn’t win many friends.

“As to your original question, yes, this assignment – however boring it might be – is necessary. We need contacts higher up the food chain, which means we are going to have to work our way up, which means you have to impress people so that TPTB will recruit you to work directly for them.”

“TPTB?”

“‘The Powers that Be’, Bond.”

A sound that might have been a cross between a ‘Huh’ and an annoyed huff came through the comm link. After a brief pause, Bond returned to his earlier complaint.

“These ‘business meetings’ I have to stand through are bloody boring – all obsequious supplication. Everyone wants _something_ , often for as little cost as possible. I have been in two already today, with another to start on the hour. At least the next one is also the last for the day.”

Q hummed somewhat distractedly. MI6 seemed to possess quite a bit of both aggregated raw and thoroughly analysed data on Bond’s client and Q wanted to be sure there would be no surprises.

“So, any luck on your end identifying who the TPTB are?”

“Not yet,” Q responded distractedly. He was only partially listening while Bond kvetched. There was something here. Something he wasn’t seeing. Something…

Q hissed in surprise as he reached the end of the file.

Reacting to the startled sound and the sheer distance between them, Bond’s voice took on an urgent note. “What is it, Q? Q? Bloody hell!”

A faint but vaguely familiar voice came through Q’s earpiece. The speaker seemed to be some distance from Bond, making his words difficult to understand though the voice was gradually growing louder.

That was when Q realised the newcomer was difficult to understand because he was actually speaking Russian.

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I'm thrilled you are (I hope) enjoying the tale! ^_^


	6. Challenges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd as I am a very impatient person and wanted to post asap once I finally finished this chapter. Still not Brit-picked either. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Bond’s alarm at Q’s failure to respond was hijacked by the all-too-familiar, solidly built, blond man in a bespoke suit who appeared in the now open doorway. Green eyes widened fractionally, but the man did not hesitate as he entered.

“ _Здравствуйте_ , James! I did not expect to find _you_ here. Cannot say I am disappointed though. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Alec smiled at Bond. Unlike in the car park at MI6, there was nothing friendly in this baring of teeth. No, this was sharp and feral. And cold. As Alec closed the door behind him and began to cross the conference room, a Siberian chill seemed to precede him.

The other man’s appearance knocked Bond off-balance and it took a moment for him to realise Trevelyan had greeted him in Russian even though he had automatically responded in the same. “ _Привет_ , Alec.”

Without thinking, Bond took a step toward his oldest friend before halting. In Bond’s ear, Q’s voice was unusually tight and urgent. “Bond, MI6 sent 006 to eliminate your client!”

“I’m aware of that, Q. 006’s standing in front of me.” Bond kept his voice absolutely level, no good would come from revealing how rattled he was by Alec’s presence.

“Bugger. Be careful, James,” Q murmured.

At mention of Q, Bond watched Alec’s eyes narrow as his mouth pressed into a thin line. “So where is the skinny, treasonous, little former Quartermaster hiding, James?”

“Surely you don’t expect me to volunteer that information.” Bond’s lips twisted in a mockery of a smile as he lifted an eyebrow.

Alec stopped mid-stride, halfway across the room and stared at Bond for a long moment before slowly shaking his head.

“You son of a bitch. Why?” Alec’s voice broke on the last word. The cold mask on his face momentarily cracked and betrayal shined through before the Russian-born MI6 agent ruthlessly reasserted trademark iron control over his emotions.

Bond assessed Alec’s movements, mentally cataloguing what weapons Alec was carrying and where. Recognising the other man was doing the same, Bond intentionally kept his own hand away from the Walther holstered beneath his left arm.

“I’m sorry, Alec, but I can’t let you kill my client.” Bond’s voice held a trace of unfeigned regret. He couldn’t believe that he was actually going to defend an international criminal from his oldest friend.

In a sign that the universe had black sense of humour, the door behind Bond opened. “What’s going on out—” The words cut off as a Glock appeared in 006’s hand and pointed at the speaker.

Bond stepped directly between Alec and his mark. He was counting on the idea that he and Alec had too much history for Alec to shoot him in cold blood. They may both be assassins, but 20 years of fighting side by side should count for _something_.

“Sir,” Bond spoke to his employer without taking his eyes from the lethal Double O before him. “Perhaps you might consider forgoing today’s final meeting?”

“But why should he do that, James? I’m already here.” The blood-thirsty smile was back on Alec’s face. Had Bond not known him so well, he might have believed the amused expression was genuine. As it was, the tightness at the corners of Alec’s eyes and mouth gave him away. There was anger and frustration there, and bitterness in his voice as he continued. “Besides it must be Christmas, because I came for him and get you as well, all wrapped up neat and tidy.”

Because Bond was watching closely, he saw the faint twitch of finger muscles before Alec blinked and took his finger off the trigger. Bond released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding as Alec slowly lowered his arm, eyes flickering past Bond to the man behind him.

“Fuck it,” he said, dismissing the man and returning his focus to Bond. He holstered the Glock and met Bond’s gaze dead on. “I’ll deal with him easily enough once I’m done with you.”

In the two decades they had known one another, Bond could count on one hand the number of times Alec had let emotion override his primary mission. That wasn’t to say that Alec always stayed within mission parameters, just that straying from explicitly stated mission directives was usually driven by need rather than irrational desire. Bond was less than thrilled to be one of those rare emotional exceptions.

Regardless, he took advantage of Alec’s distraction to take a single step backwards, herding his client back through the door he’d just entered and pulling the door shut behind him. In under a minute, it was just Bond and Alec facing off once more.

“Sitrep, James.” Q’s voice was calm once again, only it was a forced calm – these days Bond could read the tension that sometimes bled through. There were no cameras in the meeting room, so all Q knew was what he could hear through the earwig. Apparently that wasn’t enough to understand what was happening.

“No time to talk, Q. Alec and I have a few things to work out.”

Alec’s expression hardened and his lips twisted in distaste. “I don’t know what sort of hold that traitorous boffin has on you – is he really that good a fuck, James, that you’re willing to turn your back on Queen and country?”

Bond felt his pulse pound in his head at Alec’s words and he drew a deep breath, focusing on filling his lungs with air. He tried reminding himself that Alec didn’t understand and was just feeling betrayed by Bond, however Alec didn’t stop there.

“Not a day passes I don’t wish that... _ублюдок_ …had died instead of M and Boothroyd.”

In that instant Bond saw red, his emotions overriding everything else and he lunged at the other man. The urge to defend – to protect – Q was all-consuming.

The fight that ensued was vicious. Bond and Alec were evenly matched – having trained and sparred together for years; the punches, blocks, kicks, feints and jabs automatic and instinctive and thus accomplishing little. It was the words delivered between blows that had the greatest impact on Bond.

Alec swiped the back of his hand across his brow, smearing blood from where the skin had spilt along his right eyebrow. Bond knew it had been a lucky shot.

“Why can’t you see – he’s like Silva all over again?”

“Q is _nothing_ like Silva.” Bond ground out. He was breathing hard, trying to figure out a way to end this without further bloodshed on either side. Distantly, he heard Q speaking urgently in his ear, but he was one hundred present focussed on the deadly opponent in front of him. He had to stay focussed or Alec might win and that absolutely could not happen.

“True, but then he doesn’t need to _be_ a Double O, as long as he has _you_ under his thumb,” Alec taunted.

They circled one another, each looking for an opportunity to end it when Q’s frantic words finally made sense. The penlight. Of course.

One of Q’s brilliant toys smuggled out of MI6 was powerful miniature stun gun disguised as a penlight. It was so ingenious as to effectively be invisible to anyone who was unaware of its true purpose. Most impressive of all, it delivered a shock powerful enough to drop someone half again Alec’s size.

Eyes narrowed as Bond considered his next moves. He was only going to have one chance to make this work.

“What’s his real name anyways? Or do you even know?” Alec pressed as he attacked and withdrew, trying to draw Bond off-guard.

Moving smoothly, Bond feinted, blocked a punch, faked a kick and pulled the penlight from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. Ducking, he spun so that he was behind Alec for the fraction of a second he needed to hold the penlight to the side of Alec’s neck and press the button.

A loud _sizzle-pop_ echoed through the room and Alec dropped like a stone. Moving swiftly Bond cuffed Alec before he could recover. There was nothing he could do about Alec’s mouth though and all too soon, Alec was imaginatively cursing Bond and Q, in both English and his native Russian.

Grimacing, Bond pulled back and delivered a fierce uppercut, rendering Alec abruptly unconscious. A quick search and Bond had taken possession of Alec’s Glock, a back-up firearm holstered at his ankle, three knives, a mini radio, car keys, a watch, cufflinks and a belt. He used the last item to secure Alec’s ankles together and took a moment to pocket the others.

Bond hefted Alec over his shoulder and trudged out of the room, down the hall, and out of the villa his client was utilising as lavish business offices. He clicked the appropriated remote to open the boot of the unfamiliar luxury sedan parked on the drive and dumped Alec inside. Closing the lid, he turned to his client who had followed to stand in the villa’s doorway. Bond injected just the right amount of deference in his tone when he spoke.

“Sir, we’ve been compromised. We should relocate elsewhere. Let me deal with this…complication…and I’ll return to see you safely to a hotel until we can secure a new site.”

At the sharp nod of agreement, Bond looked past him to the other bodyguard standing just behind his client. “I should be back in an hour, two at most. Be sure everything’s cleared and ready to go.”

“Sir,” the muscle confirmed. While not much of a planner, he was quite good at following orders and his skill and marksmanship were above reproach. Bond was confident that by the time he returned, they would be ready to move to a new location.

~~~~~

As he drove the narrow country roads, Bond brought Q up to speed. He didn’t mention Alec’s accusations and hoped like hell Q had not heard them well enough to understand how Alec had compared him to Silva. By the same token, he omitted translation of Alec’s derogatory Russian insults. Q was under enough stress. They both were.

By the time Bond pulled off the road and parked, he judged that Alec was likely awake again, though the other agent was far too professional to give up the potential for surprise. “Q,” Bond stated, confident his partner was still online despite the silence that had reigned since Bond had finished his self-censored report.

“Yes, James?”

“The penlight, there should be enough charge left to knock Alec out again, correct? And it’s been long enough that another shock won’t harm him?”

“Yes to both, though the penlight will effectively be dead after this until you replace the battery. I need to find a way to make the battery last longer.” Q said the last more as an aside to himself. Bond found the way Q often talked to himself endearing though he suspected it was often a way to deal with the solitude Q faced on Malta. It wasn’t as though laying low allowed for any social interaction beyond the purchase of food and necessities from the shops. And Bond hadn’t been back since they had established a base there.

“Acknowledged.” Bond put the car in park and cut the engine before climbing out. He opened the boot and saw the tightness in Alec’s shoulders as he tried to feign unconsciousness. Shaking his head in regret, Bond pulled the penlight back out and quickly pressed it once more to Alec’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he once again shocked Alec into unconsciousness.

Hauling Alec’s deadweight out of the boot, Bond lowered him to the ground beneath a nearby tree and pulled the mini radio transmitter out of his pocket, pressing the button to activate the distress signal. He then tucked it back into Alec’s trouser pocket along with his cufflinks and watch. The firearms and knives he kept. Q Branch would hardly expect Alec to return with those.

Bond climbed back in the car and drove away, stopping for a quarter hour at a nearby ridge to watch over the area and give the MI6 retrieval team time to get close. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Alec defenceless like that, but he relished the idea of being captured even less. He needed to ditch the car as well. It was with great reluctance that he finally left to return to the client he had perhaps impressed with the day’s display of skill and loyalty.

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I'm thrilled you are (still, I hope) enjoying the tale! ^_^ Much love! <3 <3 <3


	7. Findings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for the month-long delay in posting. This chapter was not working and then GISHWHES happened and then I threw out the earlier version of the chapter and started anew. Note to self: Next time start over sooner! 
> 
> Unbeta'd still, as I do not have a regular beta-reader. Please let me know if you are interested in assisting! Still not Brit-picked either. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

"James, I found something!" Q was radiating with excitement. Indeed, he was all but bouncing in his chair, so it was probably a good thing Bond couldn’t see him through the earwig. It would only prompt snarky quips about Q’s youthfulness and non-existent spots. "Daniel Pierson of Analysis and Intentions."

"The Branch Director?" Bond’s voice in his ear sounded understandably sceptical as the implications were beyond bad and well into catastrophic.

"Yeah, I know. We thought it might be someone high up, but a Branch Director is huge." Week after week of covert research behind MI6 firewalls had finally yielded a trail Q could follow to an identity.

"Evidence?" They had to have cold, hard, indisputable evidence if they were going to make this claim.

"Working on it. Right now it’s mostly circumstantial, but now that I know where to focus my efforts, I’m sure I’ll find something. Also, we still don’t know who the contact is."

“I’ll continue to work this end, while you dig further. And Q – be careful.”

“You too, James. Miss you.” Q finished in a whisper to dead air. Bond had already disconnected, unable to talk for very long without potentially putting his cover and position at risk. After all, a huge part of Bond’s appeal as head of security was the absence of other ties or potential conflicts regarding his loyalty.

More than ten weeks had passed since Q had taken up residence on Malta and in that time he had been careful to do nothing to draw attention. He was seen out and about at the shops for supplies, and was unfailingly polite to all he encountered but did nothing to encourage closer associations. Q knew it would be prudent to relocate elsewhere, as staying too long in one city increased the likelihood of being discovered by MI6. However, he had given this careful consideration and decided that compared to inconvenience of trying to move repeatedly and continually re-establish a secure base of operations, the risk of being discovered was something he could probably manage.

He’d spent the first few weeks discretely monitoring MI6 systems via a variety of backdoors he had established before leaving. Such backdoors went against at least five different regulations, though at this point what difference did one – or five – more charges against him matter?

In any case, his monitoring had uncovered no evidence MI6 was anywhere near locating his and Bond’s Maltese base of operations. Not that Bond had been back since leaving nine weeks ago to head up security for a seemingly minor player in the Afro-European black market trafficking of arms and information. While Bond appeared to be quite successfully working his way up through the network’s ranks in a fairly short amount of time, he had yet to actually meet TPTB, so they were still at square one point five from that angle.

Once Q felt relatively certain his presence inside the MI6 network had not been detected, he began to search for the internal connection at MI6 to the TPTB Bond was pursuing. Q’s search involved digging through both official and unofficial personnel files, excavating a painful amount of email both on servers and local drives, and finally cross-referencing everything with information, records and activities external to MI6.

Given the great number of potentials with access to highly classified information – this was MI6 after all – the entire process was tedious, time-consuming, and mentally exhausting. Q had found that unless he set alarms to remind himself to eat and sleep, he tended to ignore such necessities until he collapsed. It had only taken hearing the concern in James’ voice when Q truthfully responded that he didn’t recall the last time he had eaten, for Q to set up the thrice-daily reminders.

In addition to the alarmed reminders to eat, Q set up his own cyber security alerts at each of his backdoor access points to the MI6 networks. Designed to warn Q should sniffers or trackers set up inside the MI6 networks detect his presence and attempt to back trace his access to locate him. After all, the first thing Q had done following the Silva fiasco was increase MI6 network security and the second was to ensure that Q Branch employed only the best and brightest technical minds MI6 and the British Government had to offer. Any Q Branch employees not up to speed with the most current and up-and-coming technologies and techniques had been graciously encouraged to either retire – particularly if they had been a part of Boothroyd’s notorious gadgets team – or transfer elsewhere within MI6 – or in a few instances, to MI5.

“I know it’s you. I’m sure of it. So where’s the bloody proof?” To combat the seemingly endless weeks of silence, Q had taken to speaking aloud to himself as he poked around the MI6 servers. Sometimes it was an effort to mnemonically fix a piece of information in his brain for quick and easy access later. Sometimes it helped him work through a particularly tough mental challenge. Mostly it was just to hear a voice speaking. Even if it was his own.

Q hadn’t thought it was possible but he was lonely. It was ironic really, he had survived – thrived even – through almost a decade of predominately self-imposed, near-isolation prior to being recruited by MI6, and now a mere nine weeks alone and he was all but climbing the walls. Of course before MI6, the entirety of his social life was online in the community of hackers and technophiles that circled the world – he could always find _someone_ to interact virtually with through email or SMS. Being in hiding and on the run, on the other hand, did not embolden one to announce their presence online in an attempt to make connections with like minds.

Since joining MI6, Q had replaced that online network with face-to-face interactions with co-workers and other professional peers. The utter lack of intellectual stimulation via in-depth discussions about coding, technology, or even philosophy and the ethics of AI, was being sorely felt. Q had not realised how much he valued conversations with Ruksana, Dennis, and the other techs. He missed Eve and Tanner, even M and the Double Os, though most interactions with the last group had been prone to causing indigestion, a migraine, or both.

It may have been distraction caused by loneliness or just a subconscious desire for some excitement, but Q was inside the MI6 network, seeking hard evidence against Pierson when an alarm began to beep rather insistently. His first thought was that it was time for dinner and he automatically tried to dismiss the reminder to eat, only to realise it was a back trace alert instead. _Bloody hell._ Someone at MI6 – Q’s best guess was Ruksana – was onto him.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

As soon as he understood his intrusion into MI6 had been noticed and was being back traced, Q executed the script to sever ties with all automated queries and processes currently under way. They would continue to run independently and Q could retrieve any results the next time he logged in. If anyone other than he tried to access the data gathered, the encrypted files would self-destruct preventing anyone else from identifying his purpose inside MI6. As Q rapidly retreated from the MI6 networks, he also activated the automated programs he had previously deployed to hide and erase his tracks. However, he’d lost critical seconds by originally misinterpreting the alarm.

Figuratively letting the backdoor hit him on the way out of the MI6 networks, Q shut down not just his laptop, but every machine on his Maltese network, leaving not even an echo by which to trace his presence on the internet. Q pushed back from his work bench, breathing hard, hands trembling and heart racing from adrenaline coursing through him at the closeness of that call.

On autopilot, he went into the tiny kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. Mug and teabag at the ready, he waited for the water to boil while staring out the window. The brilliant Mediterranean sky reminded him of James’ eyes. Then again, most things these days reminded him of James. This was the longest separation they had endured since they’d started seeing one another.

Unfortunately, they had no idea how much longer it would be. True, Q believed he had a strong lead in identifying the MI6 leak that had forced their departure, but until he had incontrovertible proof, neither could hope to return to anything but a small cell in the sub-basements of MI6.

“James, I feel like I’m losing my edge here. I’m starting to see why solitary confinement in prison is such a punishment. I miss you.”

Q poured water into the mug and let it steep. He needed to make plans. Their base on Malta had been compromised. While Q doubted the back trace had made it all the way through the world-wide maze of IP reroutes, tunnels and redirects he had used, Bond would not want Q to stay in Malta and risk being caught. He would very likely insist Q leave. Not that Q intended to argue as he was not keen on taking unnecessary chances and planned to leave regardless. He was no fool.

Scratch that, maybe he was. He should never have underestimated his old team. He knew better than anyone just how good they were, but he had been so confident in his own brilliance he had not given them their due and they had very nearly caught him behind MI6 firewalls. It was true that it would not have been as dangerous as being physically caught in MI6 headquarters but they would have been able to trace him to Malta for certain then. And MI6 would likely have scrambled any and all agents in the area to bring him in.

“I have to get out of here.”

By the time he binned his tea bag, Q had a solid mental list of things to accomplish prior to leaving Malta the next day. He blew steam from the top of the bergamot-scented nirvana and prioritised his various tech. He would need to start transferring it to the boat immediately. While he would greatly prefer to take everything, he knew that might not be possible and there were certain items he could not risk leaving behind in the event of an emergency he devoutly hoped would not come to pass.

~~~~~

“You’ll spend the night on the boat and set sail at first light.” There was no question in Bond’s voice as it came through the earwig, merely the certainty that he was right and would brook no argument.

Q suppressed a flicker of irritation and its accompanying sigh. The earwig was sensitive enough that Bond would hear it easily and miscommunications happened far too easily from this distance. He knew Bond did not question his competence or abilities. Bond – James – was just frustrated that he was not here to personally ensure Q’s safety. James was combating that sense of helplessness the only way he knew and consequently was in over-protective agent mode.

The mental reminder regarding James’ motives worked and Q was able to respond in his Quartermaster voice – poised, patient, and slightly posh. “All critical tech has been secured and stored on the Bright Star. She’s fuelled and fully stocked with supplies. I’m on my way back to the flat to get my bag and the last few items. I’ll fdisk the remaining server drives and be out of there. James,” Q paused, trying to find the words that would reassure Bond, both that he did have a part in seeing to Q’s safety and that everything would be fine. “I’ll stay on Bright Star tonight. I remember everything you taught me about how to sail her. Eidetic memory, you know? I’ll be fine.”

There was an audible, ragged draw of breath. “I know you’re fully capable, Q. I just hate that I can’t be there. This fucking job…”

“You’ll be in my ear the entire way. Welcome to my world.” Q smiled wryly, hoping the amusement in his tone would not be misconstrued.

Bond let out a frustrated huff. “You’d better bring my equipment back in one piece.”

A bark of laughter nearly escaped Q before he silenced it. Laughing for no reason while walking down the street in the middle of town was hardly the way to maintain a low profile. There weren’t many people on the streets in the deepening twilight; most were elsewhere either preparing or eating supper.

“You do the same,” Q shot back instead, before his tone turned wistful. “We’re close, James. We’re so close. All we need is TPTB and the mole and we can go home.”

Home. It was a simple word with complex layers of meaning. Bond was an orphan and Skyfall was gone. For more than a decade, MI6 had been Bond’s home. For Q, home now referred to wherever Bond was. Since Bond’s home was MI6 that was Q’s home as well. It may be awkward going back but it was where they belonged. In some ways the only place they truly belonged. Bond interrupted Q’s increasingly depressing train of thought.

“So long as I’m with you, I’m home, Q. I don’t care if it’s MI6, Togo, or Rothera on Adelaide.”

Q’s breath caught in his throat and he stumbled. For all that he and Bond had been together for months, emotions were never spoken of, rarely even hinted at. Q had no doubt James loved him, it had only become more evident in Bond’s words and actions since leaving MI6, but Bond admitting any actual emotional commitment simply had not happened. Vesper’s betrayal had done a number on Bond’s willingness to be emotionally vulnerable, even with Q.

“James?” A million questions were encompassed by his name.

Either Bond realised what he’d said or someone was approaching him because he voice dropped to a low murmur the sensitive earwig microphone barely picked up. “I have to go. Talk to you later. Be careful, Q.”

“You too, James,” Q replied, but he suspected James was already gone. Raising his chin and determined not to be an emotional git, Q walked the last few blocks to his flat. Mentally, he was planning his actions so as to maximise his efficiency once he arrived.

Climbing the flight of steps, he punch in the code on his smartphone to deactivate the security system before he even got to the door with his key. Once inside, he flipped the locks but didn’t bother to rearm the system. He would not be here long.

His stomach grumbled, reminding Q that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Surely there was something in the fridge he could grab that was quick and would last him until he returned to the Bright Star.

He entered the kitchen and flicked on the lights, blinking at the sudden brightness. A noise from the corner caught his attention and he turned to look.

Alec Trevelyan – Agent 006 – was sitting, seemingly relaxed, at the small kitchen table, Glock lying between where his hands rested on the smooth wood. There was zero warmth in the mockery of a smile he flashed at Q.

“Hello, little boffin.”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I love hearing what you think (yes, even pointing out typos and errors)! I'm thrilled you are (still, I hope) enjoying the tale! ^_^ Much love! xoxo


	8. Losses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude to Mistflyer1102 for her beta and assistance last night with sorting my brain about this chapter and the next. All errors are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is _always_ welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Alec was here.

Alec.

Was.

Here.

Fuck.

On one hand, Q was grateful all their tech was already safely aboard the Bright Star. Potentially Bond would be able to access what was there, so long as Alec and MI6 remained unaware of the boat’s berth in the Marina. On the other hand, Q had nothing with which to defend himself. Not that Alec was likely to give him much opportunity to defend himself.

He was so screwed.

Vividly remembering the last encounter between Bond and Alec, Q knew 006 blamed him for Bond’s defection. The question was: what was 006 going to do now they were in the same room? Q eyed the Glock warily. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t already in his hand, 006 had reflexes like a snake. All the Double O’s did.

Instinctively, Q shifted into Quartermaster mode. It was how he best dealt with stress and being trapped with an unhappy assassin was about as stressful as it got. Particularly when said assassin was unhappy _with him_. In any event, all of his interactions with 006 to date had been as Quartermaster, so perhaps that familiarity would help.

“006,” he greeted, impressed when his voice neither shook nor cracked.

Judging by the way 006’s eyes narrowed at Q’s use of his Double O designation, he was not pleased. The assassin’s next words confirmed it.

“You don’t get to call me that.”

Q felt a cold sweat break along his spine and tried unsuccessfully to swallow against the knot of terror that filled his throat. This was bad. Very, very bad.

“Alec,” he temporised.

A wordless growl showed Q’s use of Alec’s given name was no more acceptable than his call sign. _Bloody hell._ The situation was rapidly becoming his own personal _Kobayashi Maru_.

Q breathed in slowly through his nose in an effort to calm his racing heart. The problem – well, one problem anyway – with being confronted by an angry agent possessing a license to kill was that you never knew if they were actually there to kill you or just to terrorise and capture you. Q found himself absurdly praying it was the latter, despite what that would likely mean.

He tried again. “Mr. Trevelyan, sir.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened fractionally at the double honorific before narrowing again. His mouth pressed in a thin line, but he said nothing. Instead, he continued to examine Q as though Q was a particularly fascinating insect he was about to crush.

Not encouraging imagery.

Taking Alec’s silence as permission, Q continued.

“I won’t insult either of us by asking what you’re doing here. Rather, what do you intend to do with me?” His voice cracked ever so slightly as it rose at the end of his enquiry.

Lips curving in a hungry and anticipatory smile, 006 answered in a voice that was soft but no less terrifying for its low volume. “I’d have thought that would be evident, little traitor.”

“Well, if you were going to kill me, I’d already be dead, wouldn’t I?” Forced bravado in place, Q tried not to flinch as he met eyes he’d seen in photos with James as vibrant and full of humour. Now they were cold and unforgiving. There was no life in them, just an unspoken promise of violence and death.

“Q? What’s going on? Are you safe?” James’ voice in his ear was an abrupt surprise. Apparently he’d returned in time to hear Q’s last words. Hopefully they would not be his _last_ words.

Q couldn’t respond. Not unless he wanted to reveal to 006 he was wearing an earwig, though he imagined 006 would figure it out soon enough. As a Double O, he regularly used them after all. Q remained focussed on the agent in front of him. He hated that James was hearing this. It wasn’t as if James could do anything. If only there was some way to shut the comms off without informing 006 of their existence. Meanwhile, Q needed to pay attention to the angry Double O in front of him rather than the agitated one in his ear.

“Is that what you think?” With an odd smile, 006 pushed back from the table and stood, holstering the Glock. “You know…interrogation is often part of the mission. Maybe I need to understand why first.”

Bloody buggering hell.

Q realised he had been unconsciously flexing his hands and fingers, devoutly hoping they been left out of any upcoming…discussions.

The Russian walked around the table. Q stood frozen as 006 approached. He knew any attempt to flee was likely to result in a bullet in the back; the only question was, back of his leg or his head? He wasn’t keen on finding out which it would be.

“Q, is someone there? Did MI6 find you?” James was beginning to sound frantic.

Q hated that he dared not answer. He needed to keep possession of the earwig for as long as possible. Of course 006 knew James had been wearing an earwig in Italy, but Q Branch handlers didn’t have matched earwigs. Instead, the agents’ comms were returned through MI6 systems where they were recorded and could be accessed via phones, speakers, headsets or computers.

Even so, Q was supposed to be a bloody genius, surely there was some way he could tell James what was going on. Besides, once 006 got close enough, James would hear him talking. Q didn’t want to think about what would happen when 006 got that close.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” Q started and heard James curse at the mention of Alec’s name. “You have questions and you want answers. Believe me, I understand—”

“You understand NOTHING!” 006 roared as he exploded into motion, launching himself across the last few feet between them. 006’s hand closed around Q’s throat as he body-checked Q into the wall behind him. Q tried to gasp – tried to whimper – as the back of his head hit the wall so hard he saw stars but he could not draw air. Fuck. He couldn’t die like this.

The vice of fingers tightened and Q’s hands scrabbled ineffectually trying to loosen 006’s grip. Blackness encroached on Q’s sight and over the pounding of his pulse in his ears, Q could hear James yelling.

“Alec, no! It’s not what you think! Alec—”

~~~~~

Bond was in hell.

There was nothing he could do as he listened to Alec attack Q. He had never felt so helpless – not with Tracy, not with Vesper. The fury and malevolence in Alec’s voice, followed by loud thuds, strained breathing, gasping, and abrupt silence from Q left Bond’s stomach tied in knots. Following Alec’s outburst there was nothing said, just the indistinct sounds of things moving and shifting – furniture? Alec? Q? – Bond had no idea what was going on.

There were barely discernible mutterings in Russian but they were too soft and distant to be clearly heard, much less understood. And then Alec found the earwig Q was wearing.

“Hello, James. This is James, _да_? Mutual earwigs, how clever.” Alec’s voice was startling in its clarity. It was loud as well, but then he had no idea just how advanced these earwigs were as compared with the usual Q Branch technology. His Russian accent was strong and his breathing was harsh, as though he had just run a race or sparred with Bond. Bond hated to think what that meant.

He couldn’t hear Q at all.

“Alec, don’t harm Q!” James didn’t even try to keep the emotions from his voice. Alec knew him too well in any event. This exact situation – Alec, or any of the Double O’s, going after Q – was the one thing that had terrified Bond from their plan’s inception.

Q being who and what he was, was far more dangerous rogue than Bond could ever be alone. It hadn’t been unfounded arrogance when Q had told Bond during their first meeting that he could do more damage on his laptop, in his pyjamas, before his first cup of Earl Grey, than Bond could do in a year in the field. Bond wasn’t too proud to concede that. MI6 knew it as well, which was why it was inevitable a Double O would come after Q.

But that extreme threat potential was with a computer. One on one, despite training with Bond, Q was a novice and all but defenceless against an agent of Alec’s calibre.

“Now, now,” Alec chided. “I just want to ask the boffin a few questions once he wakes up. Any pain he ends up experiencing is entirely up to him.”

“Don’t torture him—”

“Or what? You’re half a continent away and in no position to make demands, _предатель_.”

The conversation, the entire situation, had spiraled so far out of Bond’s control that he had no clue what he could say that wouldn’t worsen Q’s situation. Bond was thankful he had left the cartel leader’s Montenegrin compound before linking back to Q’s earwig. He would not have been able to maintain his cover had he still be on-site.

He’d actually planned to tell Q to sail for Ulcinj on the Adriatic Sea when Q left Malta in the morning. It would have given them a possibility of seeing one another. It had been so bloody long. Now, Bond had to try to keep his oldest friend from possibly torturing or killing his Quartermaster.

“Alec, _мой брат_ , you don’t understa—”

“I understand you willingly abandoned Queen and country because this boffin bent over and wiggled his pretty arse. I understand you’re both amongst Her Majesty’s Most Wanted but his photo tops the list and they don’t even know what name to put under it.

“I understand you betrayed me for this skinny, filthy piece of arse.”

And that – Bond knew – was the crux of the entire matter. The source of Alec’s unwillingness to listen to anything Bond had to say. It was less about Queen and country, though their loyalty to both had always been absolute. This was about Bond’s supposed betrayal of more than two decades of brotherhood.

Both he and Alec were orphans, and only children to boot. Neither had extended family to rely on; they only had each other. In cutting Alec out of this operation, he had severed a familial connection years in the making and while he’d had Q, even if only over comms for the last few months, Alec had had no one.

All Alec had left was Queen and country and he would be loyal unto death. He had nothing else left to lose.

Bond had everything to lose. And it was all currently in Alec’s custody.

And apparently awake once more.

“James?” Q’s voice was weak and hoarse and just saying Bond’s name seemed to spark a fierce fit of coughing that silenced him once more.

In that moment, Bond realised why Q had been unconscious. _Alec had choked him_. They were damn lucky Alec hadn’t unintentionally killed him. Or put him in a coma.

Bond waited for the rage to come at how careless Alec had been with Q’s life, but there was only despair. Coming on the heels of Bond’s new understanding of how betrayed and abandoned Alec felt by Bond’s and Q’s actions, all he could think was how buggered they all were. Given a chance, he would have included Alec in their plans, if only to avoid this situation. If Alec was not stopped now, then when the truth came out, Alec would hate himself even as he rationalised that he’d had no other option.

“Alec, listen to me.” Bond was ready to tell all, he just needed Alec’s attention. He could hear Alec talking to Q but it was distant, as though he’d removed the earwig.

“You always were the clever one, but these linked earwigs? Genius! And so bloody clear and distinct – you upgraded everything about them, didn’t you? And then you stole them from MI6!” There was a sound of flesh hitting flesh.

“Alec. Put the earwig back in please.”

Bond couldn’t make out what, if anything, Q said in response to Alec’s grudgingly admiring accusation. Apparently Alec was holding the micro communicator too far from his ear to hear Bond’s pleas. Indeed, Alec’s words were barely discernible.

“So who bought you? And how much did you sell England for?” He was too emotional to listen to anything Q might say in his defence, not that Bond thought Q would break and try to defend himself. Unless Alec thought to threaten Q’s hands.

_Please don’t let him harm Q._

“Alec!”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I love hearing what you think (yes, even pointing out typos and errors)! A part of me is continually amazed that anyone who is not me wants to read this (yes, stereotypical neurotic and insecure writer here). I cannot say how much each of your comments or observations has meant. I'm thrilled and more than a little humbled you are (still, I hope) enjoying this tale! ^_^ Much love! xoxo


	9. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: The tags have been updated and while not gratuitous, this chapter contains violence and torture. If this might trip any triggers, you might want to skip to the second scene (after ~~~~~).
> 
> My eternal gratitude to Mistflyer1102 for her beta and assistance last night with sorting my brain about this chapter and the next. Our discussions were so inspiring that I wrote a whole slew post-beta, so all errors included at this time are mine alone. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Okay, actually this chapter really wasn't much fun to write...)

Q was at a distinct disadvantage. He honestly had not expected to wake up when the darkness had overtaken him. Alec’s hand around his throat had squeezed until Q had been quite certain he was going to die in an anonymous flat on Malta, at the ruthless hands of his lover’s best friend. He had awoken in a crumpled heap on the floor half-propped up against the wall Alec had slammed him into.

Now Q’s throat burned and his head was pounding as if the cast of Stomp had taken up residence and while he could think, his thought processes seemed slower and rather challenged. He knew where he was and had a clue regarding what had happened – clearly MI6 had found him. However figuring out what he should do next was beyond him. Indeed, it was hard to think beyond fairly simple concepts – fear and pain being the two currently at the forefront of his wool-filled brain.

Opening his eyes, he peered about, hoping for some brilliant inspiration. He knew he had been talking to James. Q looked blearily around; Alec stood above him, waving something about in his hand and James was…not here. Alec’s agitated movements and wild arm swinging was making Q feel sick. Closing his eyes, Q blocked the dizzying image of a manic Double O agent. If only it was as simple to make Alec stop yelling. Q pressed his palms against his temples. Why wasn’t his brain working?

He gave his head an experimental shake and a railroad spike seemed to shift somewhere deep in his brain. _Bloody hell._ It felt on par with the worst migraine he’d ever experienced. Apart from the pain, something was off, other than his brain which had apparently gone on holiday without him. No, there was something he was missing; he just wasn’t sure what it was.

Opening his eyes once more, Q adjusted his glasses which had shifted to sit crookedly on his face. His vision cleared somewhat, allowing him to better see around him. Alec had stopped moving and was staring down, watching him. Q’s fingers followed the earpiece of his spectacles to touch his left ear. There was something wrong with his ear. What was—?

“Looking for this?” Alec loomed over Q, holding what Q could now see was an earwig micro communicator in front of Q’s face. _His earwig._ Alec had his earwig. His link to James. That was bad – but why? Why was it so hard to think?

Q dragged his attention out of his head and back to Alec’s furious ranting. The words, what he could follow, seemed complimentary, the tone anything but. Alec’s eyes were flashing with anger and his fist closed around the earwig moments before he backhanded Q. Q’s attempt to dodge the unexpected blow was an utter failure; his physical responses were at least as sluggish as his brain.

Even through the throbbing in his head and unable to think clearly, Q understood enough to know he was unlikely to leave the flat unscathed. All he could reasonably hope for was to avoid maiming and death, and death seemed unlikely given that MI6 wanted answers. Unfortunately that meant maiming was still on the table.

The terrifying part was that Alec seemed to be looking for different answers than MI6 would be seeking. Hell, the questions he was asking weren’t questions Q was even remotely expecting, so he had absolutely no idea how he should answer them. Why was Alec so focused on money? Did he seriously believe that James would sell out England? Surely he knew James better than that. Wouldn’t Alec’s time and effort be better spent focused on sussing out a legitimate why? What the fuck?

Instinctively, Q pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into the foetal position in an attempt to make himself the smallest possible target and maybe even protect himself from the irate Double O. Until the fog in his brain dispelled and he could think clearly, Q had no hope of being able to reason with Alec, not that he’d had much luck before Alec tried to strangle him.

Alec was crouching next to him now, his face level with Q’s. His expression was granite. Looking into Alec’s narrowed eyes, Q couldn’t suppress a flinch at the cold fury burning in them. Alec grabbed Q’s shoulders and slammed him into the wall again. “Answer me, damn it, or I swear I’ll…”

The threat hung unfinished as Alec released him and all Q could think was how terribly buggered everything was. How buggered he was.

Covering his head with his hands, Q couldn’t stop murmuring, “Please no. Please, I can explain. Just let me….please….”

That was when Alec grabbed Q’s left arm and stood, twisting the captured arm in a very effective Aikido move that allowed him to utterly control Q and keep him off-balance. As Alec hauled him across the room, Q scrambled, trying to get his feet under him. He desperately tried to think of a way to escape Alec’s questionable mercy.

Next to the table, Alec deftly executed another quick twist that spun Q around before landing him sprawled partially across the table. He then proceeded to flatten Q’s hand on the table’s surface and held it there. Even brain-fogged, Q didn’t like the direction this was going – What was Alec planning to do to his hand?

“How much?” Alec demanded, looking like some sort of vengeful angel. Grabbing Q’s fringe in his free hand he yanked it, forcing Q to look him in the eye.

“I—I—Nothing…I swear! Alec—”

Alec’s intense green eyes stared at Q for several moments, evaluating. Then something seemed to switch off internally. He released his grip on Q’s hair with a shove that almost sent Q’s head into the edge of the table as Alec turned away. Q tried to get his legs underneath him so that he was not so stretched out and off-balance when Alec shifted his grip on Q’s hand and the force he was exerting to press the captured hand against the table increased dramatically.

“Alec, what are you—?”

Q’s thumb was abruptly grasped and pulled sharply back. There was a shift and a pop. And pain. Sharp and intense, it felt like his thumb was being separated from his hand. Q screamed; a cry that ended in another fit of coughing that quickly dissolved into pleas mixed with nonsensical babbling as he looked at his thumb sticking out in a manner no thumb ever should.

“God, Alec, no…not my hands…it’s not…I’m not…” He tried pulling away but his entire body felt weak and useless.

The pain was fading or maybe shock was setting in. It was so fucking hard to think; fierce, throbbing pain dominated everything. For half a second, Q wondered how long it would be before his brain shut down entirely. He prayed it would be soon. And then Alec took hold of his little finger.

“No! Buggering hell! Don’t! Please! Please, don’t!”

Q began to struggle, frantic. Never mind that that the Double O easily out-weighed Q by at least four stones, maybe five. And all of it muscle. Q’s glasses slide off his face and clattered to the floor, but they didn’t matter. His hands were his life; he had to protect his fragile fingers.

What was it that Alec really wanted to know? Where was Bond, damn it? If Q had ever needed Bond, it was now. Why was Alec doing this to him? And why couldn’t he just think? Surely there was a way about of this nightmare. If only his bloody mind would cooperate.

And as Alec’s fingers wrapped around his, Q’s formerly magnificent but now miserably muddled mind finally took mercy on him and everything went black.

~~~~~

This time when Q woke, his primary awareness was pain. It seemed as if every atom of his being hurt. His head. His throat. And oh sweet hell, _his hand_. His eyes flew open to a small, dimly-lit room. Between the lack of decent lighting and the fact that his glasses were gone, Q couldn’t see much. Panicking, he raised his heavily bandaged left hand in front of his face staring blearily at it, sans spectacles, for long moments as though trying to ascertain through the layers of fabric just what damaged had been inflicted on his poor fingers.

Instinctively, he pawed at it with his right hand, hissing at a flare of pain when the thick mitt of bandages on his right hand slammed against his left. Q stared in shock at the two identically wrapped extremities, thick bandages effectively rendering both hands useless. What the bloody hell had happened to his hands?

Q sat up blanket falling away, thin mattress shifting beneath him. He shivered; he was still in the clothes he’d been wearing on Malta and they were more suited to a sun-drenched Mediterranean island than where he was now.

Held inches from his face so he could see them clearly, Q examined his heavily wrapped hands. The memory of the damage 006 inflicted on his left thumb was vivid; he doubted there was anything on the planet that could dull that memory. Similarly, Q was fairly positive 006 had then moved on to his little finger when Q had blacked out. What he didn’t know was the extent of damage that had been inflicted on the rest of his fingers. And why was his right hand wrapped? Had the bloodthirsty bastard destroyed both his hands while he was out cold and unable to respond?

With deliberate focus, Q attempted to isolate each finger in an effort to determine what exactly had happened to his hands during the time his brain had so helpfully decided to delete. Unfortunately there were so many and varied aches and pains stemming from his encounter with 006 – his head was throbbing, as were his back and shoulders – it was difficult though not impossible to differentiate and filter out the conflicting pain inputs from throughout his body. However, the inescapable memory of what had happened to his thumb and the associated pain would trigger an overwhelming and realistic flashback every time Q attempted to focus on his hand; the pain was so immediate and intense that it would drown out all everything else, leaving him barely able to breathe.

The echo of a loud, clanging thud came from somewhere beyond the door to his room – no, cell was a more accurate description now that Q turned his attention from his hands to his surroundings. The walls were bare, no windows, and the only furnishing was the narrow cot he sat on and that was built into the wall and floor. A commode sat in one corner with a tiny sink built into the wall next to it.

He was in a fucking cell. Alec. MI6. Q’s breath caught in his throat before exploding into quick, short erratic pants as reality settled in. He was imprisoned in the bloody be-damned sub-basement at Vauxhall.

Forcing himself to take slow deep breaths, Q perched on the edge of the cot, back ramrod straight, shoulders squared. He glared at his bandaged hands before resting them in his lap, listening intently as brisk measured footsteps approached the door. Voices, low and indistinct through the door held a lengthy and apparently intense discussion before the locks disengaged and the door finally opened.

Bill Tanner stepped into the cell and paused to smooth down the front of his impeccably tailored suit jacket and twitch the cuffs of his shirt where they peeked out from the jacket sleeves. He’d been upgrading his appearance over the past year and though not to the point of bespoke suits, his taste could not be faulted. Wardrobe adjustments complete, Tanner raised calm blue eyes to inspect Q where he sat.

Q wondered just what he saw – was it former friend, co-conspirator, and practical joker or traitor to Queen and country? After what felt like several minutes but was probably at most one or two, Q couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“Tanner?”

Regret flickered across the Chief of Staff’s face, followed in close succession by betrayal and anger; Tanner never had been one for winning at poker. With a heavy sigh, Tanner spoke.

“I really should have suspected something by how willing you were to ignore regulations during the Silva incident…”

“What? No, Tanner—” Q wasn’t sure what he was trying to explain, only that he felt compelled to say _something_. Tanner had been the first, apart from M, to accept that Q when he’d been promoted. Never questioning Q’s age or appearance, Tanner had accepted Q based on his competence, his brilliance with computers, and his ability to handle the most obstinate of field agents, managing them through their missions and bringing them home alive.

In many ways, Tanner had been his first real friend at MI6, stopping by Q Branch at odd hours to make sure Q remembered to eat something that wasn’t pure sugar or sharing a drink following the successful completion of a mission. Unfamiliar with the subtleties of a friendship in the real – as opposed to cyber – world, Q hadn’t considered how his going rogue might affect Tanner. That was probably a rather large error on his part.

Unsure what he could say to fix the situation, or if fixing it was even an option at this point – especially seeing as telling Tanner the truth was _not_ , Q stared at where his hands twitched uselessly on his lap. His mouth twisted in bitter regret at all the sacrifices they had made – careers, friendships, _his hands_. Fuck, would it even be worth it? Q looked back up.

“Tanner, I—”

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” Tanner raised a hand in an abortive gesture before pressing it to his forehead, shaking his head slowly. “I’m not here to listen to excuses.”

Q opened his mouth and paused, then huffed and closed it again without actually speaking. What could he possibly say?

Silent, they stared at one another from across the tiny cell. It hadn’t escaped Q’s notice that Tanner had yet to refer to him by name or title. Q had given up his former name upon ascending to the position of Quartermaster. Another sacrifice to add to the list.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Q broke it again. “So why are you here, Bill?”

Tanner flinched at Q’s use of his given name before visibly schooling his expression to impassivity. “Honestly, I’m not sure.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and shifted his polished leather shoes. “Maybe I was hoping to find some answers. Maybe I needed to see your face when I asked you why. Maybe because you are the last people I ever thought would go rogue?”

Q looked away first, shifting his gaze to stare at a blank spot on the wall; there were so many to choose from. He swallowed hard, trying to loosen the knot that had formed in his throat. His voice, when he found it, wouldn’t rise above a whisper. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Somewhere Q found the strength to meet Tanner’s gaze again only to have the other man turn away and rap his knuckles against the cell door. A metallic clank and the door opened. Tanner didn’t look back again, though his parting words were loud enough for Q to hear regardless.

“Yeah, well for what it’s worth, 006 has gone after Bond.”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I love hearing what you think (yes, even pointing out typos and errors)! I cannot say how much each of your comments or observations has meant. I'm thrilled and more than a little humbled you are (still, I hope) enjoying this tale! ^_^ Much love! xoxo
> 
> P.S. I am also on Tumblr as kissofflame, if you want to message me there.


	10. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude to Mistflyer1102 for her beta and assistance last night. As always all errors included at this time remain mine alone. Still not Brit-picked. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Bond stood on the deserted balcony, starting out at the moonlight glittering off the restless waters of the Adriatic Sea. Lifting the hand-rolled cigarette to his lips, he inhaled slowly, drawing the custom-blend smoke into his lungs as the ember at the tip flared briefly. As he took the cigarette from between his lips, he reminded himself that he had intended to quit; smoking was hazardous to his health. Then again, so was being shot and falling from a moving train and he had survived that.

It had been three days since Bond had listened to Q’s disastrous encounter with Alec. Then, and in the days since, he had wrestled with the desire to abandon his position with what he had found to be an Eastern European smuggling cartel with ties to fully half of the former Soviet Union – most notably Russia. He still didn’t fully know how extensive the network was; only that it was bigger than Quantum, bigger than the Union. What Bond did know was that the threat posed by this organisation was greater than any other currently facing England. More organised and better funded than many governments, it was potentially more dangerous than anything he had gone after in years. And now he was so very close to meeting the inner circle – what Q had termed ‘The Powers That Be’.

Even so, the only reason Bond had stayed on mission was the simple fact that the key to Q’s freedom and their future – with or without MI6 – was the identity of the still unknown Powers-That-Be. Either through sheer brilliance or dumb luck – Bond chose to believe the former – Q had managed to secure Bond a trusted position as head of security with, as it turned out, the nephew of one of TPTB. Bond saving his employer from assassination by 006 had ingratiated Bond to TPTB; the nephew bringing him to Montenegro – to the cartel’s seat of power – for a meeting in the morning regarding Bond’s future with the organisation.

Bond knew he should be resting – tomorrow was likely to be the payoff day they had been working towards – but he was unaccountably restless. So here he was alone, staring into the dark and lost in his own thoughts. Not knowing what had happened to Q was steadily gnawing away at his resolve and focus, but he was determined to succeed for both their sakes.

Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow he’d have the answers they had been searching for, though now without Q’s brilliant handling, Bond was going to have to manage the logistics of acquiring physical proof, taking out everyone he could, and escaping all on his own. He knew he was fully capable; it just would have been much simpler with Q working his electronic wizardry on the other end of the now-dead comms.

Shortly after Alec had demanded to know how much Q had sold England for, the connection between the earwigs had cut out – either Q’s earwig had been shut off or destroyed. Even as he recognised the irony, Bond devoutly hoped the other earwig was intact and functional; this was one piece of tech he had come to appreciate and rely on in recent months – almost as much as he relied on his Walther.

In an uncharacteristically optimistic move, he had continued to regularly charge his own earwig and wear it in hope that Q had escaped from Alec and would somehow manage to make contact. He knew it was unrealistic at best, but in the absence of any solid information, it helped keep him on mission.

Crumbling the spent butt between thumb and forefinger, Bond let the remnant bits of paper and tobacco flutter to the flagstones. In the distance, he could hear the waves rise and fall against the shore. Overlaying that was a slow arrhythmic clicking. Periodically the clicking would pause before repeating the pattern all over again.

It was an indication of just how distracted Bond was that it took over two cycles for him to realise the sound was coming through the earwig and another thirty seconds to translate the variation on Morse code.

  


_James. Meet me at…_

  


A query of his smartphone showed the coordinates were near the local marina and a shot of adrenaline mixed with relief sped through Bond’s system. _Q._ Reaching up, Bond clicked the response code, acknowledging the message.

~~~~~

By the time Bond arrived at the prescribed coordinates, a jaded sense of desperation had replaced the wildly ecstatic optimism he had felt at translating the message. There were any number of reasons why Q would have sent the message by modified Morse instead of just talking to him – some of them even took into account the incredible encryption algorithm Q had integrated in the matched set of earwigs – however, given that last he knew Q was Alec’s captive, the likelihood that Q was at the other end of the earwig seemed exceedingly slim. Rather, it seemed far more likely that the person he was heading to meet was—

“Alec. I know it’s you, so come on out. Here I am.” Bond had positioned himself at the edge of the shadows, just visible by the limited light of the moon and stars.

Moonlight glinted off blond hair as Alec Trevelyan sauntered into view. Through the shadows, Bond could just make out the smug expression on the other man’s face and the matte black of the Glock aimed his way. “I did wonder if you’d figure it out or just race in to see your little boy toy…”

“Don’t—” Bond stopped himself and took a deep breath. “Look, Alec, you want answers, I get that. I was ready to give them to you back at Malta before you shut off the earwig. Are you willing to listen now?” Bond spoke quickly, not giving Alec a chance to interrupt. He didn’t want to hear any more slurs against Q. Not when he didn’t know where – or how – Q was.

Alec’s eyes narrowed, either in suspicion or irritation, Bond’s wasn’t sure which, and the blond Cossack looked from Bond to the shadows beyond and to either side of where they stood, most likely trying to ascertain a trap. There was no one else around though; Bond was sure of it. He knew he hadn’t been followed. He had not even seen another person on his way to meet Alec. Despite it being the height of tourist season, this part of Ulcinj had long since gone to sleep for the night. “Почему именно сейчас? I asked – I begged even – for an explanation months ago. Why now?”

Bond could feel Alec’s stare peeling away the layers he had wrapped himself in since leaving MI6. Just as Bond knew Alec reverted to Russian in times of emotional stress, so too did Alec know each and every one of Bond’s tells. Bond’s desperation to be believed might be read as an attempt to distract Alec from the truth. Or might be seen as evidence of that truth. Please let it be the latter. He needed his friend, his ally – his _Alec_ – back.

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before, but I promise I’ll tell you everything now. No tricks, Alec, just the truth. Я обещаю.” As he gave his word, Bond held his hands up, palms out to show they were empty and took a cautious step towards Alec.

“So talk.” The Glock in Alec’s hand didn’t waver even as Alec shook his head at Bond’s advance. “But don’t come any closer. Я тебе не доверяю.”

Bond halted abruptly. Hearing Alec say he didn’t trust Bond to approach him felt like a knife in the gut, but at least Alec seemed willing to listen – which was an improvement over their last encounter – so that was something. Bond decided to take that as far as he could and come completely clean. It had been a mistake to cut Alec out in the first place. One way or another, it would all be over with soon enough.

Raising his hand, Bond waved towards Alec’s ear. “Your Q Branch earwig?”

Alec immediately understood. He shook his head with an inelegant snort. “I’m off the grid.”

Bond raised an eyebrow and Alec shrugged a shoulder and smirked in response. Some things never changed. With a half-hearted huff, Bond nodded understanding. It _almost_ seemed like old times. Except for the Glock that was still a notable part of the conversation.

“There’s a high-level mole somewhere in MI6.” That got Alec’s attention; his eyes locked with Bond’s, evaluating the truth of Bond’s words.

“Is? As in currently?” The scepticism was back in Alec’s voice and Bond tensed. Surely Alec could see he wasn’t lying.

“Yes. I know it sounds crazy, but tell me, is it any less believable than that I’ve gone rogue?”

Alec watched him for several long moments, possibly remembering – as Bond was – all of the countless sacrifices each of them had made over the years in the service of Queen, country, and MI6. The hand gripping the Glock lowered slowly and Bond knew he was finally getting through to his oldest friend.

“There may be more than one mole.” Bond continued. “All we know for certain is that there’s at least one. Late last year, Q noticed an odd pattern regarding mission successes and failures. He began discreetly gathering data and when he analysed it, what he found was worrisome.”

Bond paused, giving Alec a chance to digest the idea of a different traitor at MI6. A chance to fully accept that Bond and Q _hadn’t_ turned on Queen and country. There were definite shadows in Alec’s eyes when he finally met Bond’s gaze squarely and holstered his Glock, before nodding for Bond to continue.

The relief Bond felt at the sign of Alec’s returning trust was palpable though he knew well the other man’s reflexes were such that he could have the firearm drawn, aimed and discharged within the space of a couple of heartbeats. The fear that he had lost Alec’s friendship forever had haunted Bond for months. It felt good to know that maybe he still had a chance to make things right.

“Do you recall that mission from hell that sent you chasing your target from Kampala, to Johannesburg, to Buenos Aires, to San Pedro Sula?” Bond decided to start with a scenario he was certain Alec hadn’t forgotten.

“Only to have the target I was chasing vanish like early morning mist? Да. One of the most frustrating missions of my career.” Alec flashed a rueful smile and Bond remembered a shared bottle of vodka once Alec had returned from that debacle.

“How do you suppose your target was able to elude you repeatedly?” Bond asked.

Alec thought about that. “Every move I made, it was as if the bastard knew what I was going to do before I did.”

“Almost as though he was somehow listening in on the information being given you by Q Branch?”

Slowly, Alec nodded. “Именно так! Exactly! So, a traitor in Q Branch?”

“Possibly. We’re not sure.” Bond raised his hands in a gesture of frustration. “At this point, the only people we’ve cleared are…well…no one apart from ourselves.”

“So you’re saying the mole could be anyone – including Mallory or Tanner?” The flash of horror in Alec’s eyes was real.

“Pretty much, though given the pattern Q identified extends back before Silva, Mallory – M – seems unlikely. In fact, shortly before you found our base on Malta, Q seemed fairly convinced Pierson might be it.”

“Pierson? Daniel Pierson, Head of Analysis and Intentions? You need some serious proof if you’re going to make accusations like that.” Alec shook his head in disbelief.

“We know. That’s why Q was poking around inside MI6. And Ulcinj?” Bond waved an arm to indicate the town behind them. “This may be a nice place to visit, but I’m only here because we need to know who is pulling the mole’s strings.

“Tomorrow I have a chance to meet some of the top brass, maybe learn who’s who, or at least what’s what. They’ve been spying on MI6 for months, if not years, and we’ve no idea what their endgame is – or if they even have one at this point. Maybe I can find something out about that as well. Regardless, once I have tangible proof, I can go back to London and get our names off England’s Most Wanted lists.”

Alec stared at Bond intently for several seconds before asking, “And what are your plans once you have the information you’re looking for?”

The cold fire that had been burning deep inside all these months away from Q flared abruptly as Bond considered the sheer evil he _knew_ had been perpetrated by this organisation – whatever it called itself. His boss was hardly a mastermind, but some of the things Bond had witnessed, and even been party to, still turned his stomach. There had been times – more and more frequently of late – when the self-loathing had been difficult to ignore and Q’s voice in his ear had been the only balm on his tattered soul. “Well, it’s not as though I can just walk away and leave them to continue…”

Bond saw the eyes watching him narrow in a calculating and predatory way that might have sent alarm down his spine had this encounter gone differently. Instead he felt pleasurable warmth spread through him at Alec’s words, “Want assistance?”

A single, jerky nod was all Bond could manage as he contemplated working side-by-side with Alec once more.

“Then I guess we have some planning to do.” Alec’s hungry grin resembled nothing so much as a wolf on the prowl.

“Indeed. Though knowing you, any plan we make is likely to go right out the window.” Bond shoved sentiment aside in favour of a rueful, mildly deprecating chuckle.

“Us, мой брат, any plan involving _us_.” Alec shot back. “And I imagine these fancy earwigs of yours will prove rather useful in that event.”

“Whatever you do, don’t lose or damage your earwig.” Bond paused, realising in his own way he was channelling Q. He huffed softly, “God, but I can’t wait to get back to Q and listen to him tell me that again.”

Instantly, tension radiated once more from Alec.

“Yeah, uh…James…about Q…I’m sorry.” Alec’s low voice was filled with more remorse that Bond thought was possible and the reasons why that might be terrified him.

Bond’s heart nearly stopped. Seeing his expression, Alec rushed to clarify. “No, no, Q’s alive – he is. He’s just…” Alec paused and took a deep breath, looking first at the starry sky and then at the water, as though the words he was looking for might be found there. “Let’s just say I didn’t treat him kindly back on Malta. In retrospect, knowing what I know now…well, I don’t exactly anticipate being invited over for Christmas dinner.”

Adrenaline spiked again and Bond now felt his heart race double time as he recalled the cold rage in Alec’s voice over the earwig from Malta just before the connection had cut out. It was followed by a flood of memories of just some of the different ways he had mistreated people in an effort to obtain information over the years. There were times when calling him soulless in his dealings would have been generous. He gritted his teeth and asked, “What happened after you shut off the earwig, Alec?”

Alec didn’t respond, instead turning away from Bond to stare at the white froth of the waves crashing into the rocks guarding the shore. The sky behind them was just beginning to lighten with dawn. Still not looking at Bond, Alec fidgeted in a decidedly un-Alec-like manner.

After several breaths with nothing forthcoming from the other man, Bond prompted, “Alec?”

The silent agent’s head jerked and he met Bond’s gaze briefly, his features flinching, mouth tightening before he turned back to the sea. “Nothing I’m proud of, okay? I thought I was interrogating a traitor. I was convinced I could break someone so completely lacking in loyalty.”

“But Q wasn’t lacking in loyalty.” The words were barely more than a whisper as Bond thought about his incredibly beautiful, unbelievably loyal, frighteningly fragile Q.

“I know that now.” Alec’s expression was bleak as he turned to fully face Bond once again. “And though he begged and pleaded, he didn’t break. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – answer me, so I didn’t stop until he passed out.” He paused. “I’m so sorry, James.”

Bond’s breath caught in his throat. “Alec,” he growled. “What did you do?”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I love hearing what you think (yes, even pointing out typos and errors)! I cannot say how much each of your comments or observations has meant. I'm thrilled and more than a little humbled you are (still, I hope) enjoying this tale! ^_^ Much love! xoxo
> 
> P.S. I am also on Tumblr as kissofflame, if you want to message me there.


	11. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um...this chapter was never beta'ed because of...reasons. As always, all errors included herein are mine and mine alone. Still not Brit-picked. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> ETA: Thanks, Mistflyer1102!

Q hadn’t been able to sit still, much less sleep, following Tanner’s visit. Instead, he paced the narrow confines of his cell until he collapsed, exhausted on the bunk. Awake, he alternated between cursing his short-sightedness and his stupidity, never pausing to give himself a break. When he had conceived his brilliant plan so many months before, it had all seemed so simple, elegant even; he and Bond would go undercover as rogue MI6 agents to identify the mole or moles and their external contacts or handlers.

With neither man having any familial ties to speak of and no real social lives or obligations outside of MI6, there would be no one in the civilian world to raise alarm at their disappearances. He had not considered at all the possible effects their defection might have on friendships _inside_ MI6, at least not apart from repeated discussions about the pros and cons of involving 006. Then again, until Bond, Q had long considered himself a loner; it was one of the reasons he was so good at his job — no friendships meant no distractions.

Staring miserably at his bandage mittened hands, Q allowed that he _should_ have acceded to Bond’s arguments that they at least include 006 in the loop regarding their plans. He certainly would have spared himself some pain and suffering.

Without windows or a clock of any sort, Q had no way of telling time other than the trays of food that were periodically shoved through the small slot intended for such deliveries. Every meal consisted of the same food — a bland sandwich, an apple, a bottle of water and a cup of lukewarm earl grey tea.

Q couldn’t help but mentally applaud the simple brilliance of replicating the meal contents every time so as to add to prisoner confusion regarding the passage of time. Normally not big on eating to begin with, he generally eschewed the sandwich and only occasionally indulged in the apple with his tea. Though to be honest, attempting to eat or drink anything really with his hands swathed in bandages was an initially humiliating experience all on its own. After a few botched and messy early attempts, Q found he could, if he was careful, use the palms and heels of his hands to brace and lift items. It was not graceful by any stretch, but at least he wasn’t reduced to eating or drinking like a dog from a bowl.

As he was not aware of humiliation being a standard practice in breaking MI6 prisoners, Q could only presume his injured hands had not been taken into account. At least he hoped a goal of his former co-workers was not merely the inhumane degradation of the former Quartermaster. If that was the case, it didn’t bode well for any possible future at MI6 once all of this had been resolved and he and Bond were exonerated. And they _would_ be exonerated. He had to believe they would be.

Meanwhile, even though Q understood the rationale behind providing tea that was lukewarm at best, the end result felt like a specially personalised form of torture. Of course between stress, his normally abnormal eating habits, and the challenges presented by his hands, actual physical hunger levels were no reliable measure of time. The trays of food could be appearing every four hours, every six hours, or at completely random intervals; he had no way of knowing. 

As time passed with no other visitors, Q was repeatedly grateful his go-to outfit for anonymity on Malta had included drawstring shorts. They may be in danger of sliding off his hips, but at least he could maintain some small semblance of clothed dignity, given his current physical handicap and the limited toiletry facilities.

Likewise the cell lighting brightened and dimmed at what seemed to be irregular intervals that appeared to correlate with every two to three meal trays. Surely a few days had passed though, as the aches and pains scattered throughout his body had faded somewhat.

Consequently, Q’s internal clock was thoroughly confused; it may have been one day or it could have been more than three that passed between Tanner’s visit and the next time the cell door opened to reveal a person.

Q looked up in surprise as the lock on his door clanked loudly and the door swung outward. Standing to face whomever was arriving, he was surprised into compliance when an unfamiliar male voice barked, “Sit, Sinjin.”

Automatically, he sat, bristling internally at the instinctive response to what was essentially a command one gives a dog. Then he was appalled as recognition of the appellation set in — Q had not been prepared for how harsh it would feel to no longer be known as ‘Q’ at MI6. Sitting on the edge of his cot, Q glowered as two burly men in the uniform of the security detail entered. The first stepped immediately to one side, hand resting on his holstered weapon, alert and watching Q, all but daring him to provide a reason to draw the semi-automatic.

The second guard approached Q with caution, chains and cuffs rattling loudly as they swung from his grip. Expressionless, the guard refused to meet Q’s eyes as he crouched in front of Q, attaching a cuff to each ankle before shifting to also secure Q’s wrists. With the steel snugged over the bandages, Q bit back a harsh laugh at the absurdity of chaining his useless hands together — it wasn’t as though he could even grip a simple door knob; the likelihood of him going anywhere was somewhere in the vicinity of nil.

Hands and feet secured, Q was unceremoniously hauled up to stand next to his cot as a chain was belted around his waist and the leads from the wrist and ankle chains were fixed and locked to a welded ring that sat just below his navel.

“Come.” Gripping his bicep, the guard tugged Q towards the door.

Q stumbled as he automatically attempted to take his normal stride rather than the abbreviated shuffle he was reduced to courtesy of the hobbling chains. He would have fallen had it not been for the guard’s firm grasp of his upper arm. As it was, he hissed in pain at the unexpected stress placed on his shoulder by the opposing forces when he lost his balance.

“Oi! Watch it!” The guard gave him an irritated look and a rough shake before forcibly ushering Q towards the door once more.

Taking mincing quick steps, Q endeavoured to stay upright as he was herded far too rapidly first into and then down the corridor to the interrogation rooms at the far end. It said something, he supposed, that he was apparently being held on the maximum security level where prisoners were not moved any more than necessary and yet was still so restrained he could hardly walk while his hands were worse than useless.

Focused on putting one foot in front of the other while remaining vertical, Q was almost able to push aside thoughts of what almost certainly awaited him in the room ahead. Almost was by no means an absolute, however, and Q had witnessed enough MI6 interrogations — either in person or on camera — to know that once the proverbial big guns were brought out, it was doubtful he would be able to remain silent or withhold much, if anything. 

He desperately wished he had the slightest clue how close Bond was to finally learning the identities of the TPTB, because then he _might_ be able to guess how long he needed try to give his partner to allow him to complete the job.

Then again, with Alec off after Bond, their timeline had doubtless already altered considerably, though whether that was a positive or negative change was anyone’s guess. Maybe it wouldn’t matter how long Q stayed — or didn’t stay — silent.

The real question was: did the mole or moles know Bond and Q were on to them?

All too soon, Q found himself inside the bleak interrogation room, being manoeuvred to sit on a sturdy steel chair bolted to the floor in front of an equally sturdy steel table, also bolted to the floor. Before withdrawing, the guards ran the chains on his wrists through attachment points on the table and relocked them before doing the same with the chains on his ankles and the chair legs. By the time they were done and had exited the room, Q’s range of motion for any given limb had been reduced to less than half a foot.

He was alone again and yet he knew he wasn’t. Even sans his glasses, Q could make out an observation mirror occupying over half of one wall and a fuzzy blur that could only be a closed circuit camera was situated high in one corner, staring down at where Q sat, chained to the furnishings. It required no imagination whatsoever to feel as though several pairs of eyes were watching him.

As a matter of course, Q tugged experimentally at the chains binding him, looking for any indication of weakness in the restraints. As expected, he found none and so he sat back in the chair as far as the chains would allow, pressed his forearms and bandaged hands against the metal table top, and closed his eyes. He imagined he could feel the cold radiating from the smooth surface through the gauze wrapping his hands and focused on slowing his pulse and breathing as he waited for MI6 to make the next move in this unwelcome game of chess.

By the time he heard the door open again, he was as close to calm as he was likely to be, which was good given the identity of his visitor.

“Joshua Elliot St. John.” 

Q started, eyes flying open at hearing his given name from M’s lips. The head of MI6 strolled towards the table, stopping behind the chair across from Q, where he stood. Hands resting on the chair back, Mallory watched Q with a harsh intensity that rivalled the former M on a bad day. Or even a good day.

This time it was Q who would not meet his captors’ eyes, instead looking at every real and imagined, albeit blurry, feature in the dingy room – the observation mirror, the utter lack of furnishings apart from the table and two chairs, and bloody hell, was that a drain set into the concrete floor over in the corner? His gaze finally settled on his hands, the hated bandages representing everything that had gone wrong with what should have been a foolproof plan. Foolproof, that is, until his own hubris led MI6 right to his door. He devoutly hoped Bond was faring better than he was.

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Mallory moved to sit in the chair across from Q, bringing their faces level and making it all the more challenging for Q to avoid meeting his steady stare.

“Nothing to say, St. John? This is your chance to dazzle me with your wit. Surely you have an ace up your sleeve; a chip to bargain with.”

“Why waste my breath? England won’t negotiate with terrorists; surely she has no plans to open talks with a so-called traitor like me. Especially not when she has me at her oh-so questionable mercy.”

“You deny that you and Bond stole equipment and intelligence? That you fled England to sell your considerable skills to the highest bidder?” The patent disbelief in Mallory’s tone was a mocking invitation to speak.

Q felt his lips twist in a bitter grimace as he responded. “Would you believe me if I did?”

“What do you think?” This time M’s response was soft, almost gentle, but Q wasn’t fooled. He knew the head of MI6 was just looking for the rope with which to hang both Q and Bond — provided 006 succeeded in bringing him back — preferably in the middle of Tower Green. Not that anyone was executed for treason these days and certainly not in the middle of a major tourist attraction.

No, if Bond was even brought back before the actual mole or moles and their puppet masters were were identified, there would be no trial; MI6 would not air dirty laundry such as traitors so high in its ranks. Certainly not when said traitors had regularly provided what were admittedly questionable services to the Crown through the years. Instead, Bond and Q would quietly disappear, their deaths silent and unremarked, save for permanently sealed files buried deep at Vauxhall.

Before Q could speak, not that he had a clue of what he might say, Mallory retrieved his mobile from an inner pocket of his jacket and glanced at the screen. A disgruntled look flickered across his face as he stood and and crossed to the door without a word or even a glance at Q. 

The door opened as Mallory approached, cementing Q’s belief that everything said and done in the room was being watched, listened to, and likely recorded for later analysis. Rather than fidget and give his watchers more to observe, he closed his eyes and once more focussed on breathing.

He lost track of the number of breaths he had taken when the door opened once more. Q peered through his eyelashes to see Mallory re-enter, followed almost immediately by a slight but all-too-familiar figure in a white lab coat. 

Ruksana — or rather, Q, as she was now known — paused just inside the door and froze as her eyes met Q’s. 

Well this was certainly awkward.

“Q-q?” Ruksana stuttered, staring in shock.

Wide dark eyes flitted over the metal restraints securing Q to the furnishings as Q’s former right hand and now replacement at MI6 stared at him in consternation. He could picture her brow furrowed, a crease forming between her eyebrows as her lips formed a near perfect ‘O’.

“Joshua St. John, actually.” Q forced a dry tone that indicated amusement he didn’t feel. “I believe _you_ are ‘Q’ now.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Congratulations, by the way.”

They stared speechless at one another for several long moments after that; Ruksana apparently uncertain _what_ to say and Q refusing to let this experience break him any more than did his encounter with 006. Though come to think of it, his hands _had_ broken then. Best to not have anything else break this go-round. At least he could feel fairly confident that any physical persuasion was likely to wait until Ruksana was gone — she’d never had a strong stomach when it came to physical coercion. Not even over comms.

“What? Why? How?” Ruksana seemed overwhelmed, unsure which question she wanted to ask. “I — we — thought you had been in an accident and were in a coma!” She turned accusatory eyes towards Mallory.

And _that_ little bit of misinformation very likely accounted for the dumbfounded expression on Ruksana’s face at seeing him chained like some dog at risk of going feral without warning.

Lips thinned, the Head of MI6 leveled a look at Ruksana that once upon a time might have sent her scurrying away. To her credit, Ruksana merely straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin in response.

Mallory’s eyes may have narrowed at her small defiance, but corners of his mouth quirked ever so slightly to see the strength she had developed. His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible to Q. “Truly, would you rather believe that your former boss was in an accident-induced coma, or know he was being hunted as a traitor to be held and interrogated?"

“But why would you even think that? I mean... this is Q!” Ruksana protested. Warmth flooded Q’s chest at her immediate expression of belief in him, but it failed to balance the sense of isolation he felt at knowing Tanner, Mallory, and even 006 believed the worst.

“No, _you’re_ Q.” Mallory corrected her, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Chewing on her lower lip, Ruksana subsided but her eyes continued to dart to where Q sat silently, impotent in his chains.

Q was now certain she’d had no clue that it was he 006 had brought back from Malta, but was left wondering why Mallory had elected to keep his capture secret. Why was Mallory playing this so close to the vest? Was it strictly to preserve morale or had he caught on that the real trouble still resided here, inside MI6?

In any event, with Q’s replacement present, this portion of the ‘interview’ would undoubtedly be all about the emotional or psychological side of things. Maybe Mallory was hoping to guilt him into saying something.

Not bloody likely. Not if Q had anything to say about it. Or rather, nothing to say about it.

Time to figure out what the endgame was.

Unable to lean back in the chair and cross his arms given the absurdly short lengths of chain binding him to the table, Q looked from Ruksana to Mallory and raised an eyebrow.

When there was no response from Mallory, Q raised his hands as much as he could, the rattle and clang of the chains against the steel tabletop, causing Ruksana to flinch before she also turned to look at Mallory then back at Q.

“Care to explain the purpose of this little soiree? I recognise I have the remainder of my life to sit here, however, I also know from past experience that there are plenty of things Q,” and here he waved a heavily bandaged, chain jangling hand in Ruksana’s direction, “could, should, and most likely would prefer to be engaged with just now.”

Mallory’s eyes narrowed slightly as he examined Q for long moments before giving a noncommittal grunt and crossing his arms to walk over and lean against the wall. “Have a seat, Q, and tell St. John here what you told me.”

Ruksana visibly swallowed before meeting Mallory’s gaze. Her voice was steady, no wobble or hesitation, as she asked. “How long has he been in custody?”

“006 brought him back from Malta.”

Had Q not been paying close attention, he might have missed the blink and sudden stillness that followed Mallory’s response. As it was, he tried to understand why the length of time since his capture was so important. Why it seemed to make all the difference.

She crossed over to the vacant chair and perched on it gingerly, facing Q. Folding her small hands together, Ruksana rested them on the very edge of the table between them. Her knuckles were pale, skin stretched taut and she met Q’s eyes steadily. Despite the carefully cultivated facade, years of association allowed Q to see just how very shaken she was by all that had recently transpired.

Taking a deep breath, she stared at where his wrapped and chained hands sat on the cold steel tabletop before finally speaking once more.

“We’ve just — this morning — experienced an incredibly complex, massive IT security breach.”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I love hearing what you think (yes, even pointing out typos and errors)! I cannot say how much each of your comments or observations has meant. I'm thrilled and more than a little humbled you are (still, I hope) enjoying this tale! ^_^ Much love! xoxo
> 
> P.S. I am also on Tumblr as [kissofflame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com/), if you want to message me there.


	12. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um...this chapter was never beta'ed because of...reasons. As always, all errors included herein are mine and mine alone. Still not Brit-picked. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected -- con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle; the heavy door gliding open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. Bond entered a well-appointed board room, featuring a mahogany conference table around which six men and one woman sat in leather upholstered chairs. The auburn haired woman gestured with a well-manicured hand towards the empty chair at one end of the table, her smile too sharp to be considered welcoming.

The expressions on the three men whose faces Bond could see as he crossed the room were as formidable as the woman’s was predatory. Even so, Bond flashed his most charming smile as he stopped behind the chair and grasped the back to pull it away from the table. His eyes flickered from face to face, cataloguing distinguishing features to include in a report upon returning to MI6 only to stutter to a halt as he saw for the first time the man sitting in the middle of side that faced away from the door.

Careful not to let his true emotions reflect on his face, he cursed inwardly, _Christ, Q, we never imagined it could be this bad._

“Won’t you have a seat, James?” The too-familiar voice with the too-familiar accent matched the too-familiar face in an impossible but frighteningly real situation. Bond’s brain stuttered to a halt, refusing to accept or process what his eyes were reporting.

His heart raced as he slowly sat, taking in the pleased smirk on the face before him. It wasn’t possible. There was simply no way that Alec was sitting here on the High Council, one of Q’s so-called Powers That Be. He couldn’t be. Not Alec.

They had just spent half the night plotting and planning like old times, discussing strengths and weaknesses and contingencies for everything that could possibly go wrong. Not everything it would seem. Never had Bond even considered this scenario. Not for a moment. Not when he had faced Alec down over drawn weapons, nor even when he listened to Alec threaten and torture Q over the earwig. Never had he considered Alec might be the mole inside of MI6.

Bond briefly closed his eyes in an attempt to block the unwanted sight and collect his frantic thoughts. He reconsidered everything Alec had shared with him about the encounter with Q on Malta and how Q had supposedly been taken back to MI6 for incarceration and interrogation. When he reopened his eyes and stared into the hard green eyes of the only man he fully trusted other than Q, Bond recognised that at least some of Alec had told him were lies. Given what he had listened to over the comms, a sick feeling formed in his stomach and he had to know.

“What have you done with him? Where is he?”

“Кто это? Why James, I’m sure I do not know of whom you speak.” The amusement twinkling in Alec’s eyes said otherwise.

“Q.” Bond growled. 

“Ah, yes. Such a sweet boy. I can see why you’re so enamoured of him.” The amusement vanished in a flash; Alec’s face once more that of the ruthless assassin Bond had known for nearly two decades. “He was getting too close and had to be dealt with.”

 _No._ Ice slid down Bond’s spine at the thought of all the ways Alec might have ‘dealt’ with Q. Invisible bands tightened around his chest and it became increasingly difficult to draw breath. This wasn’t happening. 

Not Q. 

Not Alec.

This couldn’t be real.

A steady tapping of fingers on wood, drew Bond’s eyes down to where Alec’s thumb and five fingers were steadily drumming against the dark wood of the conference table.

~~~~~

With a gasp, Bond sat up in bed, the ultra high thread-count sheet he preferred falling to his lap. His eyes frantically searched the familiar darkness of the bedroom in the flat he shared with Q before settling on the naked lithe form curled up beside him.

Whimpering at the loss of both the sheet and Bond’s body heat, Q unconsciously scooted closer, chasing the fading warmth from where Bond had been sleeping just moments before.

Bond reached down and threaded his fingers though Q’s sleep tousled hair, both reassuring himself of Q’s actual presence and silently soothing his partner. Vivid images played in his mind and he shook his head in an attempt to discern dream from memory only to find that everything felt the same.

He closed his eyes and familiar green eyes taunted him again; the pain of yet another betrayal burning deep in his chest. Bond rubbed an absentminded hand along his sternum. It had been a month he had been back in London and while he appreciated the time with Q, maybe the dream was an indicator from his subconscious that it was time to harass M for another assignment. If he was not active in the field for long enough, Bond had long since learned he would become his own special brand of stir crazy. In any event, after the dream he’d just had, Bond was grateful for Alec’s continued long-term assignment in Eastern Europe.  
The thought gave him pause.

For a brief moment, he considered waking Q and sharing the bizarre dream he’d had of them leaving MI6. He looked at the shadows beneath his long eyelashes and, recalling the incredibly long days Q had been putting in of late, dismissed the idea. The young genius may like to pretend he was invincible while at Q Branch, but Bond knew Q really did need his sleep.

Lying back against his pillow, Bond curled protectively around the other man, gathering him close and relishing the trust given him by this amazing man as Q hummed quietly in his dreams and pressed against Bond.

They could talk in the morning.

~~NOT THE END~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. Really. I did _not_ just do that. For those of you of a certain age, I _did not_ just turn the entire tale into nothing more than Sue Ellen’s ridiculous dream. I _did_ suffer writer’s block while working on the next chapter, however, and this was the result. Who knew my muse was a practical joker? Happy April Fool’s Day, everyone!


	13. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I should probably apologize for the last last chapter, sorry, not sorry. Here's a real continuation of the story to atone for that little bout of non-negotiated sadism on my part.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to Mistflyer1102 for her beta and assistance and to BootsandBlossoms for the cheerleading and support that gets me through each chapter. As always all errors included at this time remain mine alone. Still not Brit-picked. Please feel free to let me know if you see anything that should be corrected — con-crit is always welcome! Thanks for reading! I can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Bond paused to adjust his cuffs, jacket, and tie before entering the chamber where the cartel’s governing committee — what Q had termed The Powers That Be — were meeting. He and Alec had parted with only the bare bones of a plan and the confidence in their combined ability to pull it off that only years of working closely with another equally skilled and lethal human could bring. First, they’d bring this bastards to their knees and then they’d return to London with the information that would exonerate both Q and Bond, and allow them to clear MI6 of the true traitors in her midst.

While he felt confident he was entering the meeting with an advantage, having saved the nephew of a committee member, Bond was acutely aware of how the news Alec delivered a few hours earlier had raised the stakes.

~~~~~

_“I escorted a sedated Q to MI6 and met with M for a mini-debrief before heading here,” Alec stated. “The expectation was that Q would be interrogated thoroughly until MI6 knew everything about why you left, what equipment you took, and what your plans were. They want to obtain a full accounting of your treason before ensuring neither of you ever pose a threat to England again.”_

_The other man’s words were a punch in the gut to Bond. Alec himself looked unhappy at the meaning behind the semi-formal phrasing. As Double O’s in possession of licenses to kill, they both had been responsible for neutralising threats to England, not all of which were actively dangerous and operating freely in the outside world when they were neutralised. The easiest assignments were targets who were either already imprisoned in a maximum security facility or en route to said facility. Either way, the agents had seen to it that the threats were eliminated. Permanently._

_Q would know this would be his fate. Had probably known from the beginning._

_“Alec, what happened when you threatened Q’s hands?” Bond asked quietly. The question was largely rhetorical. 006 had already described how Q had begged and pleaded that his hands be spared, passing out from pain in the end, rather than spill his and Bond’s secrets. If 006 at his terrifying worst couldn’t strong arm Q into breaking, Bond was certain there was nothing MI6 could do to convince Q to reveal the true nature of what he and Bond were trying to accomplish. Not that MI6 would believe it without proof — the very proof Bond was here to obtain._

_Besides, the only thing Q valued more than his hands and mind was Bond and he was far too smart to believe any potential ‘deal’ MI6 might put on the table to bargain for Bond. Everyone already knew Bond’s life was as forfeit as Q’s._

_Q might stall in an effort to give Bond time to return with the identity of the mole, but ultimately Bond knew Q wouldn’t say anything of import._

_“How long do you think we have before M gives the order?” James had an idea, but wanted to see how it compared to Alec’s, given that Alec had spoken with the man more recently._

_Alec shrugged, a grim expression on his face as he replied, “Maybe a week? At that point, the risks involved in keeping Q alive and imprisoned start to outweigh the likelihood of him talking.”_

_“It’s been three days already.” Bond swallowed down the panic he was starting to feel. Seven days was a rough guestimate on both his and Alec’s part, not a guarantee. They needed to wrap this up and return to Headquarters with proof that neither Q nor Bond was a traitor before M’s patience ran out._

~~~~~

Bond needed to identify TPTB and return to London, proof in hand, before that happened. Therefore, the next few hours had to go flawlessly in accordance with the plan. The thought of Q dead, beautiful eyes vacant, brilliant mind silenced forever was terrifying and more than enough to convince Bond that, no matter what, this ended here. Today.

Taking another deep breath, he reached out and grasped the handle, turning it. The heavy door glided soundlessly open on well-oiled hinges. Bond entered an expensively appointed board room, decorated in deep reds and dark browns and featuring a mahogany conference table. Seated in leather upholstered chairs around the table were six men and one woman. There was a time when Bond would not have hesitated to pursue the stunningly gorgeous woman, and not just as a mark. However, the warrior part of his brain was currently overruling the civilian part, and all he could think as he looked at her was that she was the enemy and must be destroyed.

He carefully stanched all violent thoughts directed towards her and the others in the room, sealing them away behind his poker face with skill honed through years in the field. It was too soon to risk tipping his hand. He needed to gather as much information as possible first.

Noting his attention was on her, she gestured with a perfectly manicured hand tipped by ruby red nails towards the room’s single empty chair, situated at the end of the table. Whether viewed as the head or the foot of the table, it was far from an honor to be seated there. Rather than a position of power, its slight separation from the adjacent seats made it an easy target, not only for the power brokers seated around the table but also for the men in black suits visibly stationed as guards, one per wall.

The smile the woman bestowed on Bond as he crossed the room was a touch too sharp to be considered welcoming, too calculating to be warm; while the expressions on the three men whose faces Bond could see readily see, were as formidable as hers was predatory. Even so, Bond forced himself to relax chameleon-like into his role. Playing the part of intelligent muscle and potentially powerful tool, he flashed his most charming smile.

He stopped beside the chair and grasped the back to pull it away from the table. Before actually sitting, his eyes flickered from face to face around the table, cataloguing distinguishing features to include in a report upon returning to MI6 only to stutter to a halt as, for the first time, he saw the identity of the man sitting in the middle of the side of the table that faced away from the door.

A cold smile blossomed on the painfully familiar face and Bond knew he was beyond screwed. Careful not to let his true emotions reflect on his face, he cursed inwardly, _Christ, Q, we knew it was bad, but we never imagined this._

“Mr. Bond, or should I say, 007?”

Ice slid down Bond’s spine as Michael Villiers, Tanner’s immediate predecessor as Chief of Staff greeted him with his Double O designation.

Forcing himself to portray a calm he did not feel, Bond paused and stared at Villiers, raising an amused eyebrow. “Those days are past. Please call me Bond, James Bond.” He glanced around the table, noting that every person there was watching the exchange closely.

“As you say, Mr. Bond,” the former Chief of Staff smiled thinly and Bond was reminded that he had never felt comfortable around the man.

“And how shall I address you, Villiers?”

“‘Sir’ will do nicely.”

Bond bit back an acerbic retort, opting to raise a disbelieving eyebrow in its place. From his position standing behind his chair, he had an unobstructed view of the room and nearly everyone in it. No weapons were overtly threatening, so he continued to play the game.

Apparently recognising that Bond was not going to easily accede to his blatant power play, despite that he clearly held the lesser hand, Villiers waved at Bond to take his seat, waiting until Bond did before continuing. “We understand you have spent the past several weeks in the employ of our colleague’s nephew.”

“I have.” Bond kept his gaze level and demeanor calm as he glanced once more around the table, noting that while the guards were armed, it appeared that only Villiers and two of the men seated were carrying concealed. The woman, he could not say for certain, but his instincts screamed she was as well.

Villiers glanced down at the open portfolio before him, but did not appear to actually be reading from it as he continued. “In your time as Head of Security, you acted in a variety of ways to ensure the safety of your employer and this organization, saving his life no less than four times. Most recently, you saved him from an MI6 assassin, hence your presence here with us.” 

He paused but Bond said nothing, patiently waiting for direction to speak. Villiers’ dark eyes narrowed slightly before he continued. “Before I forget, I’d like to offer my condolences.”

“For—?”

“Your little pet boffin, of course.” Villiers’ eyes bled insincerity from behind a transparent mask of sympathy.

“What are you talking about?” Bond’s confusion was not feigned. Alec had guiltily detailed the injuries he had inflicted on Q, none of which would be cause for condolences. However, neither of them knew what might have happened during the course of Q’s interrogation. Then again, Bond wouldn’t put it past this crew to lie to him in an effort to get a rise out of him or to test his knowledge of what was happening back at MI6 Headquarters. He refocused on Villiers’ words.

“He’s absolutely brilliant, potentially the greatest Quartermaster MI6 has ever had. Isn’t he a bit young for you though?”

Bond ground his teeth and ignored the jab at his age; Villiers was hardly one to talk as he easily had twenty years on Bond. Instead, Bond narrowed his eyes and asked again. “What are you talking about?”

“Your precious Q — do you even know his given name? — lies in a coma in HQ Medical.”

Bond hid the rush of relief he felt to hear the MI6 cover story being conveyed back to him. His relief was short-lived however, as Villiers continued with details Bond hadn’t heard previously.

“According to my source, he appears to have had a nasty reaction to whatever was used on him during questioning.”

Bond felt the blood drain from his face and his mask faltered. Q _had_ been in MI6 custody for three days. What Villiers was saying _was_ entirely possible.

“You didn’t know,” Villiers breathed. The smile on his age-lined face widened.

Frigid fingers wrapped around Bond’s heart and squeezed. _Get with the program, James,_ he reminded himself. _Villiers is playing you._ But the fear and doubt remained.

“How the hell am I supposed to know what’s going on at MI6?” Bond growled. “The last time I was there, I walked out with a carryall filled with unregistered equipment. The last time I spoke with Q, we were interrupted when he was captured and tortured by MI6.” _By Alec,_ his mind whispered.

“See, this is where things get interesting… My source inside MI6 tells me that officially you are on a deep cover mission. Is that what this is, Mr. Bond? A mission?” 

He paused, but Bond said nothing. It was time to see just how well informed this source really was...

~~~~~

_“To be honest, James, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on,” Alec went on to curse softly in Russian, his dark blond brows scrunched together. “When I was sent after Q in Malta, I knew who I was going to find, but as far as I know, nearly everyone else was in the dark.”_

_“What do you mean? Surely Q Branch—?” Bond’s mind was racing at the implications. Why did no one know Q was the rogue hacker attacking MI6?_

_“Q — Ruksana, that is — and her team knew there had been repeated security breaches and had set up a stinger program to trace the next attack, but the identity of the culprit has remained Her Eyes Only.”_

_“But if Ruksana is the Quartermaster now, she must know why she was promoted… ?”_

_Alec shook his head. “Surely you don’t think M’s going to let anyone know a Double O and the Quartermaster went rogue? This entire situation has been very hush hush with staff being fed one lie after another, all of which are perfectly believable. The fact that neither you nor Q have any family to speak of means there’s been no one to raise a fuss over your disappearance outside of MI6, so only staff needed to be appeased. The official story is that Q was in a terrible accident and is unable to return to work. Comatose may or may not have been mentioned. You, meanwhile, are deep, deep undercover, as you are wont to be.”_

_“They’re not wrong.” Bond flashed a humourless smile at Alec’s raised eyebrow. “So no one knows Q’s currently in custody at MI6?”_

_“No one knows for a fact that Prisoner Z is Q except myself, M, Tanner, and one doctor from Medical.”_

_Of course, Medical had to know. Bond didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until he saw the guilt flash once more across Alec’s familiar features as he worked his jaw._

_“James, I—”_

_Bond cut him off. Despite understanding his friend’s reasoning, the repeated apology only served to raise Bond’s blood pressure, only his anger wasn’t at his friend but at himself. Bond scrubbed at his face. He should never have agreed to Q’s mad plan, nevermind that it was on the cusp of success. None of it mattered a damn if anything happened to Q._

_“Don’t, Alec. You were doing your job based on the only information you had available at the time. We need to focus on deciding what we’re going to do now. You’re positive no one else knows Q is being held?”_

_“Well, I can’t speak for now of course, but when I left, M, Tanner, and the doctor were the only ones who knew. The guards just referred to him as Prisoner Z.”_

~~~~~

“Then again,” Villiers paused and glanced at his fellow committee members, who were silently observing the tense exchange between the two MI6 veterans. “The unofficial, highly classified story is that the deep cover mission and coma explanations are a ruse to hide the truth that you and your little Q have gone rogue, marketing your considerable skillsets to the highest bidder. This would certainly explain your presence here and his in a cell in the bowels of MI6.

“Should Q awaken, he can undoubtedly look forward to a quick and likely messy death for his troubles.” Villiers looked almost sympathetic. “What a waste of a beautiful mind.”

“Help me save him then.” Bond was on his feet, palms pressed to the tabletop as he leaned against it. His voice sounded desperate. Hell, he _felt_ desperate. Shifting his attention from Villiers, he implored the committee members. The disdainful looks sent his way from around the table offered little hope. Bond’s thoughts scrambled, seeking some purchase that might lure them to his side. “You said it yourself: Q’s brilliant — the best Quartermaster MI6 ever had. Think of what he could do for this organization…”

“Not much if he stays in a coma,” the woman spoke for the first time, her voice a throaty contralto.

“Say he doesn’t. Liberate him and you gain not only my highly specialised skills, but also a technological genius with a truly sadistic and destructive creative bent.” Bond reached for the inside pocket of his jacket, only to freeze when his peripheral vision caught the immediate reaction of the guards around the room.

Slowly he raised empty hands and shrugged sheepishly, attention back on Villiers, who was clearly the head of this meeting, if not the committee itself. “My apologies. I only meant to show you one of his more ingenious inventions — a stun gun masquerading as a penlight. It’s small, looks completely harmless, and yet is powerful enough to knock a grown man unconscious for twenty minutes.”

At a nod from Villiers, one of the guards approached and slipped a hand into the interior pocket of Bond’s jacket, extracting the penlight stun gun and a Montblanc fountain pen and laying both on the table.

Villiers looked at the innocuous items for a long moment before shifting his attention back to Bond. “How does it work?”

Bond started to reach for the penlight only to have the blond, middle-aged man seated between him and Villiers speak in a heavy Afrikaans accent. “No, explain how it works. Hans will demonstrate.”

Bond stepped back, away from the table as the guard beside him, holstered his weapon and reached for the penlight, pausing with his hand above the penlight and looking at Bond.

“It’s safe to pick up. To activate it, you have to first slide the switch to arm it and then press down on the switch at the same time you push the smaller button on the opposite side.”

Hans followed Bond’s step-by-step instructions until a loud _sizzle-pop_ of electricity echoed through the room. Everyone startled at the sudden sound. A low murmur swept around the table as Hans grinned maniacally.

“Q designed and developed it. That is currently the only one in existence, but he can build more and there are additional wicked toys where that came from. Not to mention the fact that he can hack any system on the planet, ” Bond added to sweeten the pot.

“We already have a superhacker — one who remains securely ensconced in your precious Q Branch—” The youngest committee member bragged, only to cut himself off abruptly at glares from the others.

Bond opened his mouth to speak but stopped as a loud commotion sounded from the hallway. The door swung inwards and four heavily armed men in black tactical uniforms entered, two openly brandishing weapons while the other two dragged a battered, mostly limp figure, also dressed in black, between them.

The door closed behind them and the newcomers shoved their captive roughly towards the open area of floor behind Bond. As the bruised and bloodied man stumbled past, Bond caught a glimpse of an almost feral expression on the familiar rugged face.

Alec.

_Fuck._

Turning to keep the other man in his peripheral vision, Bond schooled his expression to one of polite, almost chilled, curiosity and looked at Villiers.

The former Chief of Staff met Bond’s gaze steadily. “Mr. Bond, while I can see how sentimentality may have played a part in your previous confrontation with Mr. Trevelyan in Italy, please try to understand my perspective here. Given the man’s notoriously tenacious nature, I feel there is no choice but to eliminate him as a potential threat once and for all.”

Unseen, sweat trickled down Bond’s spine as Villiers’ meaning became clear. The weight of the Walther in its shoulder harness had never been so heavy. Yes, the plan had been for Alec to meet up with Bond, however, in all their planning, this particular scenario had never been discussed.

Then again, this was the first Bond had seen of the paramilitary mercs who had brought Alec here. Damn, but he missed Q’s guidance and all-seeing eyes at times like this.

Villiers turned his attention the mercs, raising an eyebrow in an unspoken request. One of the men — probably the leader — nodded once and stepped over to where Alec stood, arms bound behind him, loosely surrounded by three fully armed guards. Moving behind Alec, the leader, grabbed the agent’s shoulders, at the same time using his boot to apply pressure to the back of Alec’s knee.

Given a choice between potentially crippling damage to his knee if he struggled and taking the hint, Alec dropped to the thick Persian rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. Arms incapacitated, he had to struggle to stay balanced on his knees.

“Mr. Bond,” Villiers continued. Bond recognised the power play for what it was, but even so, he really wished the man would stop insisting on the strict level of formality he was using.

“As much as this organisation will benefit from welcoming you into our fold, I’m certain you can understand that in order to do, we need to be absolutely certain where your loyalties lie. We,” and here, Villiers gestured to his companions around the table, “need to be confident you can be trusted to put the Committee’s needs first.”

“To that end, you can reassure us with one easy step — remove the current and potential threat represented by Mr. Trevelyan.”

Bond had to consciously unclench his jaw to speak. He proceeded to force a relaxed smile that would have fooled the old M herself to curve his lips into a wolfish grin. “So, in order for you to trust me, I have to eliminate the son of a bitch who first tortured my partner and then delivered him to MI6 to be executed as a traitor? Not that I’m complaining, but to me that seems to be more of a reward than a test.”

He stood and rolled his shoulders, feeling the mission shields lock into place inside his mind, walling off weaker emotions such as doubt, regret, or really anything that might make him hesitate or leave him second guessing what he was about to do. Crossing to stand in front of Alec, he towered over the kneeling man.

“Damn you, Alec,” Bond growled, glaring down at Alec’s unmoving bowed head. “Look at me!”

There was an arrogant smirk on Alec’s face when finally he raised his head to meet Bond’s gaze; his defiant green eyes reminded Bond of so many other confrontations between them. With a deep breath, Bond steeled himself for what he was about to do. Swinging his fist, he backhanded Alec, unbalancing the bound man and sending him sprawling on the floor. Bond grimaced and drew the Walther from its home beneath his arm, sighting down his arm at his best friend.

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, enormous thanks to everyone who has kudo'ed, commented, subscribed and bookmarked. I absolutely love hearing what you think (yes, even pointing out typos and errors!) and I cannot say how much each of your comments or observations has meant. I'm thrilled and more than a little humbled you are (still, I hope) enjoying this tale! ^_^ 
> 
> Much love! xoxo
> 
> P.S. I am also on Tumblr as [kissofflame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com), if you want to message me there.


	14. Identities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, another chapter! As promised, the story lives! I was going to wait to finish writing the remaining chapters before posting but then decided y'all had waited too long as it was. Thank you for your continued patience.
> 
> Thanks to Mistflyer1102 for the beta and BootsnBlossoms for the cheerleading and occasional kick in the pants! Both were very much needed and appreciated! 
> 
> A special thank you to everyone with the patience and fortitude to still be reading this tale — your kudos and comments mean the world to me! *Enthusiastic hugs to all*

Q froze, processing the implications of Ruksana’s announcement regarding the latest security breach. First and foremost, it should be obvious that he hadn’t been the perpetrator. But who was?

He quickly reviewed the limited vulnerabilities he had found while hacking into MI6 from the outside. Even knowing the protocols and defences he had put in place before leaving, he knew the only reason he had succeeded in accessing the MI6 networks from outside was a combination of genius, technical skills and deeply intimate knowledge of the networks, firewalls, and other defences. If there had been a massive and complex security breach, it hadn't come from outside MI6.

Ruksana knew her stuff, as did the departmental heads in Q Branch. Q's unauthorised visits back inside the MI6 networks had had to be slight and subtle, leaving minimal evidence of his passage past the security protocols lest he trigger the automatic protections. Even so, they had caught him in the end.

Despite more than a month having passed since leaving MI6, Q was positive that anything beyond what he had done while externally accessing MI6 networks and systems would trigger all sorts of alarms before the intruder made it far. Any intrusion, especially one on the scale Ruksana was indicating, had to have come from _inside MI6_.

Q’s gaze flickered between his replacement seated across from him and the head of MI6, standing just behind her. There was a considering expression on Ruksana’s face as she watched Q, looking for a reaction.

Meanwhile, thoughts hidden behind a mask any poker player would envy, M crossed to the door where he rapped twice, prompting the guard outside to open the door and lean in to briefly speak with him. The door closed, lock re-engaging with an audible clack and M returned to stand alongside the table, midway between Ruksana and Q. His arms were crossed over his chest as he loomed, staring down at them.

“Q.”

Automatically looking up, Q flinched when he realised M was actually speaking to Ruksana. He had so thoroughly embraced the identity of Q that Bond continued to call him Q in nearly all their interactions. Then again, for all intents and purposes, he and Bond considered themselves to be on a mission for MI6; just one lacking MI6 knowledge or authorisation. His non-Q status was even more difficult to adjust to now that he was back at MI6, interacting with former minions and coworkers.

“Did you disable the recording equipment in this room?” M’s tone had a formal aspect to it that was unfamiliar.

“Affirmative, M. We are offline.”

Connecting Ruksana’s words with the proof he had just witnessed when M had to knock on the door to prompt the guard to open it, Q considered what he know about disabling and re-enabling the surveillance equipment. If Ruksana _had_ shut it down, no guard nor anyone else not-Ruksana would be able to restart it without Q-level intervention.

He could either maintain his silence, or he could accept that this was as private and secure a place as he was likely to be in to finally speak up. Silence was unlikely to result in learning anything further. Additionally, if what Ruksana said was true, he needed to act without delay.

A staring contest ensued between himself and M as Q weighed the probabilities that either of the people in the room with him was a traitor.

Q was 99% certain M was not the Executive Branch mole; the pattern of data he had drawn extended to months before Mallory had replaced the previous M, and in his prior role he would not have had access to much of a the data Q had identified as compromised. No, based on what he knew, the mole had to be Pierson.

As for Ruksana, her reactions to his current situation as well as her embarrassed horror at the data breach appeared genuine. Add to that the fact that none of his pre-capture snooping through the MI6 network had indicated anything might be amiss. Yes, Ruksana was brilliant — he would never have promoted her if she wasn’t — but his investigation of the new security measures she had implemented would likely have turned up _something_ questionable, were Ruksana the mole. Additionally, she was newly promoted. He knew how intoxicating it could be to wield the power of the Quartermaster of MI6, the dangerous feeling of invincibility that could accompany the promotion. If she were the mole, she would likely have tried something in the weeks before now.

He’d have to take a chance.

Conceding the match of wills to M, Q closed his eyes and drew a deep breath to centre himself. Resolute, he blew it out and opened his eyes, focussing on Ruksana, “Were your traceback programs running this morning?”

Ruksana nodded slowly, her face revealing nothing.

“Then I think you already know.”

Biting her lip as a flush rose in her cheeks, she nodded again. Q shifted his attention past her to M who watched the exchange closely.

“There’s a mole in Q Branch,” Q stated baldly.

He paused and debated continuing, watching as M’s lips pressed together to form a thin, bloodless, almost white line. M’s unchanging expression exhibited no surprise. Given Ruksana’s stunned incredulity at finding him in custody, Q thought about how secretive his capture and imprisonment had apparently been. Maybe he hadn’t been the only one suspicious of a leak inside MI6? Decision made, he huffed out a breath.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

“There’s also one in the Executive Branch,” he blurted out before he could think twice.

M’s eyebrows rose sharply at _that_ news and Ruksana sat back in her chair, her expression one of shocked realisation.

“You’re _not_ the traitor. You’ve been _hunting_ them.”

Q said nothing; neither confirming nor denying. Instead he watch a flurry of emotions flit across M’s face as tension briefly built and then slowly bled from his frame. The former Quartermaster shifted uncomfortably under the laser focus of M’s regard.

“Both you and Bond?” M’s voice was soft, his town almost… gentle? Was that remorse Q heard?

Recognising that the time had come for the truth, Q nodded. “I realised there was a problem several months ago when 006 was led on a chase across Africa then through several South and Central American cities. No matter where they went, the target remained one step ahead, as if he knew exactly what 006’s next move would be and could evade just in time.”

Both M and Ruksana nodded, clearly remembering, if not the chase, the temperamental blow up Trevelyan had had upon returning empty-handed. The Double O was not accustomed to failure — particularly when the mission was expected to be a cakewalk.

“I realised then that there was a problem, however, extensive research and analysis was required before I could be certain. Ultimately, despite being certain there was a mole in MI6, I had no idea who it was and it seemed I was not going to be able to identify the mole from here without bringing attention to my investigation. We needed more information. and I needed freedom from oversight and observation.”

Q paused to organise his thoughts.

“The pattern of failed missions and suspect data breaches extended back before Silva, which meant either the mole was someone high up the MI6 chain of command or there were multiple people involved. Given what happened this morning, it seems it was both.”

“How certain are you of the identity mole in the upper echelons?” M’s tone remained neutral, making it impossible for Q to tell whether he was believed or not.

“Very.” He frowned, meeting M’s intense stare with a unrepentant one of his own before continuing with a huff. “After all, I’m betting my life on it.”

M’s frown indicated he had caught Q’s oblique reference to the idea that he could be the mole, but Q wasn’t about to apologise for suspecting and thereby thoroughly investigating _everyone_.

When Q refused to back down, M raised an eyebrow and nodded for Q to continue. “Very well, who is it?”

“Daniel Pierson.”

M’s mask of neutral interest flickered almost imperceptibly while shock and disbelief once again flooded Ruksana’s expression.

“Pierson, the Head of Analysis and Intentions?”

Q nodded. Ruksana continued to gape at Q, jaw flapping wordlessly before turning to look at M.

“Can you prove it?” The Head of MI6 asked.

“Circumstantially, absolutely, but I know more is needed. I was in the MI6 systems seeking unqualified, beyond any shadow of doubt proof when Ruksana’s stinger program caught me. With any luck, the queries I left running when I retreated should have found something.”

“You were able to plant programs and leave them running without being detected?” M asked sourly and turned his no longer inscrutable mien on Q’s replacement. Mouth now closed in a frown, Ruksana shrank a little in her seat.

Q hesitated before pointing out the obvious in defence of his replacement and one-time protegee. “I _did_ design the security for MI6 systems and networks. Additionally, I knew when I left I would need a backdoor into MI6 to continue my investigations.” Biting the inside of his cheek, he raised his chin defiantly. “There are reasons we all know you cannot let me live if I’m found to be a traitor.”

Silence. Who knew it could actually seem deafening? No one seemed inclined to break the absolute quiet that followed Q’s acknowledgement of the elephant they all knew was in the room.

The staring contest that resumed between M and Q was cold, both men refusing to back down. Q because he had everything on the line and M because of who he was — Head of MI6.

In his blurry peripheral vision, Q saw Ruksana avert her gaze, glancing around the featureless room for several long moments until the tension was too much and she blurted, “So, what happened after you and 007 left?”

Drawing a deep breath, Q shifted his attention to her and told their tale.

“After we left, Bond found work as a mercenary, accepting carefully selected jobs that would not put put England at risk yet indicated his loyalty could be had for the right incentive and price, demonstrating his free agent status. In this manner, he wended his way into an international organisation believed to be behind a number of substantial geopolitical and multi-national economic crises over the past forty or so months. With the unplanned — but much appreciated, thank you very much — assistance from 006 in Italy, Bond proved himself and is now in a position to meet the cartel’s leadership. In the meantime, I accessed MI6 systems, working to identify the mole and document evidence to support our return to MI6.

“I’m 99% certain about Pierson’s identity as the Executive mole. It’s the proof that has so far been problematic. When someone is that high up the hierarchy, it becomes easier to obfuscate the truth and protect one’s secrets.”

The Head of MI6 stared at him, saying nothing, and Q suspected that as far as M was concerned, the jury was still out on him and Bond.

Q knew it was beyond difficult to accept that anyone who had risen so high within the MI6 hierarchy was a traitor to Crown and country — he’d had a hard time believing it himself. Even so, he couldn’t help but note bitterly that M had apparently been willing to accept it of him and Bond.

He shrugged in an attempt to shake off the resentment and refocus on the challenge at hand — regaining M’s trust. “While I encountered a few odd things during my intrusions, I wasn’t sure about the existence of a second mole in Q Branch until just a few minutes ago.”

He wanted to pursue that topic, reiterate how such a mole should help exonerate him, but another thought occurred, spinning off his own mention of 006 and chilling him to the bone.

“When Tanner visited me, he mentioned that 006 had gone after Bond — is that true?” Q directed his question at M.

The Head of MI6 nodded, expressionless and Q knew that, unlike with him, there would be no bringing Bond back to London for interrogation. The ruthless Double O agent had been sent to do what a Double O agent did best.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Closing his eyes, Q pressed his bandaged hands against them, covering his face as he thought back on their last interaction, as 006 bellowed into the earwig that was paired with James’. Alec had been furious that James had betrayed England — betrayed him — and had taken his rage out on Q’s poor hands. With an incredulous huff, Q pulled his hands away and stared blearily at them. “Fuck, I hope James gets a chance to explain.”

He glanced up at M, but the other man just shook his head. “I’ve no idea. 006 is under strict radio silence. His mission is Eyes Only, not even Q Branch knows about it.”

“Well, at least there’s that. But wait…” Q looked at Ruksana and mentally kicked himself for ignoring her earlier announcement. “You said there had been a ‘massive breach’ — in what area? What data did they get?”

Ruksana’s complexion faded and she turned paler than Q could ever recall seeing her as she bit down on her lower lip until he expected to see blood.

“All active missions,” she whispered.

Without thinking about it and completely forgetting that he was no longer the Quartermaster, but rather a prisoner of MI6, Q shifted into disaster recovery mode.

“Status of field agents?” he barked.

“All ops were immediately cancelled and agents recalled with the exception of deep cover agents we have been unable to contact.” Ruksana’s response was automatic and concise, she knew how Q preferred status updates.

“How many DC?”

“Three — four if you count 006.”

Q shook his head. “Given that Q Branch didn’t know he was in the field, he doesn’t count. What’s his official status?”

“On leave, sir.”

M cleared his throat, jolting Q and Ruksana out of their familiar default roles and back into the present where Q was hardly in a position to be making demands and barking orders.

Startled and blushing from embarrassment at her automatic shift to the position of Q’s second in command, Ruksana ducked her head and grimaced. “Oops.” 

Meanwhile, Q glared at the head of MI6. “You can’t mean to keep me here, knowing what you know now. I’m not the enemy.” He lifted his eyebrows in challenge.

“I can and I do.” M’s clipped tone brooked no argument. "As for whether or not you’re the enemy, that remains to be seen.”

Q couldn’t hold back the wounded disbelief that flooded his face. Everything, _every thing_ he had done, he’d done for Queen and Country. There were _traitors_ running around inside MI6 and M intended to keep him prisoner? The chains rattled as he yanked ineffectually at his restraints.

With a huff, M stared down his nose at Q and raised an mocking eyebrow. “I can hardly have you roaming free when the official story is that you are in a coma, now can I?”

His shoulders slumped and Q was forced to admit M had a point. Even if M were to trust him — and that was a big if — Q’s sudden reappearance at MI6 would blow Bond’s cover all to hell. It was a catch-22 and frustrating in the worst sort of way as Q could do nothing about Pierson or the mole in Q Branch while trapped in a prison cell. He stared unseeing at his bandaged hands; not that his hands were going to let him do much anyway. His mind seethed in frustration, seeking some way out of the corner he had been backed into.

Ruksana’s voice, calm, mellow and more than a little tentative, lured him out of his own head.

“Can you… will you help us identify the mole in Q Branch?”

Q’s breath caught in his throat even as his fingers twitched beneath the bandages. Of course he would help. The real question was, would M let him?

“I can talk you through using some of the logging programs I set up before I left. There might be something there.” He grimaced at the raspiness of his voice. Q didn’t know how long he has been speaking, providing details to M regarding the rationale behind everything he and Bond had done in recent months, but it must have been a while as his voice was nearly gone from all the talking. His vocal chords were exhausted and his throat was sore; even the bloody bedamned lukewarm tea would be welcome at this point.

Swallowing hard, he continued, “A trap could be set for the mole, a modified version of the stinger program Ruksa — Q used to locate me.” It hurt to have to correct himself when referring to Ruksana. _He_ was Q, damn it. Everything he had done, he had done as Q. Now he had to keep forcibly reminding himself that he was Joshua St. John, suspected traitor.

“What if you have access to a computer?” M asked and Q wondered if maybe, just maybe, M had believed him after all. He gaze fell back on the table before him.

Chains clanked loudly as Q raised his shackled and bandaged hands and shrugged his helplessness at both Ruksana and M. “I doubt that would matter much.”

An echoing staccato rapping was followed by a familiar metallic clack as the door to the interrogation room swung open to admit Doctor Fergusson from Medical. The ginger doctor was imposing and fierce looking as he glanced towards the table where Q sat across from Ruksana before refocusing his attention as M walked towards him.

The two men conferred in voices too low to be overheard as Q tried to ignore what he knew about the doctor’s role regarding various top level MI6 prisoners.

As keeper of MI6’s mission secrets, Q was well aware that all of the most sensitive prisoners were placed under the care of Ferguson once they were brought in for questioning. The doctor had been personally recruited by M’s predecessor and was so dedicated to Queen and Country that he easily put in as many hours at Vauxhall each week as Q had prior to leaving with Bond. Q had seen the security badge-reader logs and might have peered into a few medical files back when he was verifying his agents were checking in with Medical upon returning from missions.

If there was one person in Medical who was privy to _all_ the secrets of the lower levels of MI6, it was Fergusson.

“Q.”

Again, both Q and Ruksana startled in response to M’s call for attention. The Head of MI6 beckoned for Ruksana to join him and Fergusson by the door. Q felt his pulse ratchet up as he watched his replacement give a single jerky nod in response to whatever M was saying. M then reached over and knocked twice on the door. It clanged open again and Ruksana walked through. Just before the door closed, she glanced back to where Q sat.

A chill slid down his spine when she would not meet his eyes.

~~~~~


	15. Motivations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chapter disclaimer: I am neither a scientist nor an engineer (I'd just love to date them), so please suspend disbelief with me and try not to squabble over my highly questionable grasp of both disciplines! Pleaseandthankyou!
> 
> HUGE thanks to mistflyer1102 for the support, encouragement, and beta-ing and to BootsnBlossoms and terpinleather for their support and encouragement to keep on keeping on with this tale!
> 
> Finally, so many thanks to everyone for their lovely kudos and comments and belief every time I swear this fic isn't abandoned (It's not -- see? I'm posting this chapter!).
> 
> As always, all errors and mistakes are mine (feel free to point them out!).

Spitting blood from a split lip onto the carpet, Alec shook his head and looked up at Bond. His clear green eyes stared past the Walther aimed at him and met Bond’s gaze unwaveringly. A blink and an almost imperceptible nod and Bond knew they were incomplete agreement. Anything Bond could do to tilt the odds in their favor would be preferred, but in the end, only the mission mattered.

Whatever Bond had to do to complete the mission and eliminate the threat to MI6 and England, he would do without compunction. Both he and Alec had always known that the success of the mission took priority over _every_ thing else.

Bond clenched his jaw and bared his teeth, directing his attention to the crease forming between Alec’s dark blond eyebrows. He couldn’t allow his focus to slip. Taking a deep breath, he slowly exhaled, finger tensing against the trigger of his personalized Walther. There was no light to confirm the acceptance of his palmprint; Q had disabled the telltale indicator before Bond had left him on Malta. The biometric reader worked, there was no point in advertising it.

“Wait!”

A millimetre from the point of no return, Bond froze and turned his head to look at the speaker.

The woman stood facing him, her scarlet painted mouth pressed into a petulant moue as she ignored the irritated glares from Villiers and the other men. “Not in here. I just had this room redecorated. It took months to locate this carpet.” She gave a negligent wave of her hand towards the doors. “Take him to the courtyard if you must splatter his brains everywhere.”

Bond shifted his attention to Villiers. The former Chief of Staff had an irritated expression on his face, but he nodded and jerked his head impatiently in the direction the woman had indicated. “Well go on then and be quick about it. Return once the Cossack has been disposed of and we’ll discuss your future. You,” Villiers pointed at the youngest committee member, the one who had bragged about a mole in Q Branch. “Go make sure Trevelyan has been eliminated and won’t be coming back to haunt us.”

Two of the black dressed mercenaries grabbed Alec’s upper arms, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet. They shoved him roughly in the direction of the door they had entered through. Alec stumbled forward, off-balance with his wrists bound together with riot cuffs at the small of his back. They were even with the conference table when Bond called out.

“Hold on a moment.”

Imagining he could sense Villiers eyes narrow on him, Bond took several steps that brought him even with the other agent and began thoroughly patting him down.

“Hey, we already did that!” One of the newcomers, an American by his accent, protested.

“Oh really? And are you sure you found every weapon?”

“ _Every_ weapon.”

Bond abruptly ripped a button off one of the pants pockets and held it up to show the room.

“Looks innocuous enough. Just a button, right?”

A round of nods and murmurs of agreement, even as an air of expectation filled the room.

Stepping over to the table, Bond reached towards a glass pitcher of clear liquid situated in the center of the table in front of one of the older committee members. “Water?”

The grey headed man with a matching steel grey goatee nodded and passed it over, watching Bond with curious eyes.

Once the pitcher was sitting on the table before him, Bond retrieved a thin black leather glove from his own pocket and pulled it on his left hand before squeezing the button between his thumb and forefinger. There was a sharp popping sound, like plastic bubble wrap, and white sparks began spewing as garlic-scented whitish smoke rose. Those seated around the table jolted, the uncle of his employer and more than one guard reaching for weapons as Bond immediately dropped the sparking not-a-button into the container of water where it promptly sank and continued to glow dully.

“I wouldn’t drink that,” Bond commented to a small, huffed response of disdain. Turning back to Alec, Bond could feel Villiers’ eyes on him and paused to acknowledge the other man’s attention.

“Your men may be good, but odds are they’re unfamiliar with and therefore won’t recognize the ingenious creations that have been developed by Q Branch in recent years. Most agents don’t know about them until they are included in a mission kit.”

“But of course, as the former Quartermaster’s lover, you know all about them,” the former Chief of Staff observed.

Bond smirked and thought of the uncounted cases containing unseen inventions, hidden in a secret storage area deep inside Q Branch, locked away from everyone but Q. “Of course I do,” he lied.

Villiers eyed the former agent speculatively and nodded once for him to proceed.

In under three minutes, the elbow patches on Alec’s BDUs had been removed to reveal thin rubber-like sheets of what Bond described as a remarkably stable explosive that had been developed by Q Branch, hence the white phosphorous triggers. Three more ‘buttons’ joined the sheets on the conference table. A pair of ceramic push daggers to fool metal detectors, a faux fountain pen concealing lockpicks, and a Q-vintage earwig rounded out the selection of MI6 goodies on display.

Curious, the committee members passed the items around the table — even the explosives — once Bond explained what was required to actually destabilise them enough to cause an explosion.

Meanwhile, Alec was by no means complaisant as Bond located and stripped away his MI6 Q Branch toys. At one point during the search, Bond failed to react quickly enough as Alec slammed his head back, nailing Bond in the face, grunting in satisfaction as Bond gave a muffled curse. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Bond dabbed at the trickle of blood before tucking it away again and grabbing the riot cuffs, using them to shove Alec towards the waiting mercenaries.

“Let’s go.”

Propelled by Bond’s push, Alec stumbled, losing his balance and crashing into one of the mercenaries who cursed in three languages. Grabbing Alec’s upper arm and accompanied by the American at Alec’s left, the offended mercenary all but dragged Alec through the door.

Bond followed a few steps behind, well aware both of the two mercenaries behind him and the annoying twit at his side who had been sent as the committee’s witness to Alec’s execution.

As they traversed the mostly empty halls, the group passed numerous closed doors, some to offices, others to bedrooms, still more to rooms Bond hadn’t had the opportunity to explore. The compound was huge, a maze of corridors connecting the living and working spaces of the committee, all surrounding two central courtyards. One of the courtyards featured a lush garden, a peaceful retreat from the ugliness perpetrated by the committee; the other was a bleak and lifeless space, the ground covered by packed dirt and concrete, its only use was as the training space for the compound’s numerous security forces. It was this second courtyard that was their destination.

Plastering a placid and amenable expression on his face, Bond turned to the junior committee member accompanying them.

“I admit I am surprised by your age. Most of the committee are more advanced in years. You must have quite the accomplishments to have earned a seat at that table,” Bond opened the conversation, his voice hinting at awe and respect he did not feel for the younger man.

It was a fine line he needed to walk, between appealing to the man’s ego while not appearing blatantly condescending but he knew he had succeeded when the other man positively preened. 

‘Well age isn’t everything — it’s what you _know_ , what you can _do_.”

Bond was reminded of a similar conversation years earlier, with a brilliant young man far more deserving of his respect than this pillock. With a polite, albeit cold, smile, Bond rose to the bait. 

“And what do you do?”

Predictably, the other man chuffed up and began describing in detail how he had compromised a young technical genius working for MI6 a few years back. A part of Bond listened with rising horror at the realisation that the technician could easily have been Q before silently reprimanding himself for even thinking Q would have fallen into this berk’s pitiful trap.

“I _own_ him. As the second-in-command to the current Quartermaster, all that is required is a little ‘accident’ to eliminate the bird currently in charge and — _bam_ — promotion time!” He smacked his hands together with enthusiasm, grinning at Bond like a deranged circus clown. “MI6’s Quartermaster will belong to us. And soon the rest of MI6 will be powerless to stop us.”

 _It will take more than that, you pompous, demented fool_ , Bond thought, schooling his own features into impassivity while watching as Alec’s shoulders flexed with rage at what he was hearing. Ruksana was the senior female in Q Branch when Bond and Q had left and almost certainly had been asked to take over the Branch. Meanwhile, Bond had long known Alec had a soft spot for the soft-spoken, brilliant woman; she was the _only_ handler to whom he ever returned equipment. In an effort to preserve his precious tech, Q had even taken to assigning them to work together on purpose.

A lingering look served to feed the braggart’s ego while reassuring Bond that the man was not carrying a firearm. More than likely, he thought himself safe inside the compound, immune to the violence he salivated over, surrounded as he was by well armed, highly trained guards.

More fool he.

They exited to the courtyard, empty this late in the morning and Bond mentally reviewed what he knew of its scheduled use. As head of security for a relatively high-ranked, but non-committee member of the organization, Bond had spend a good portion of his first week at the compound training and coordinating with the rest of the security teams. He had continued to maintain a presence there to keep an eye on the status and readiness of the collected forces.

While the appearance of the paramilitary mercenaries had been a surprise, Bond was relatively certain they had only arrived onsite within the past twelve to twenty-four hours. Hopefully their numbers were limited to the ones accompanying him, though both instinct and experience told him that in all likelihood there were again that many elsewhere in the compound.

They paused, the American releasing Alec’s arm while another mercenary stepped up to take his place. Clearly they were taking no chances with the Double O, restrained or not. Stepping a few metres away, the American, who was apparently the leader of this squad, touched the radio at his ear and spoke briefly, murmuring so that Bond couldn’t make out his words until he turned back to face the small group.

“Acknowledged,” he confirmed before tapping out and succinctly directing the other mercs to push/drag Alec over to stand in the centre of the barren yard.

Bond refrained from looking, but distinctly recalled seeing cameras mounted high up on the building walls, their configuration such that the entire yard could be viewed without obstruction. Odds were, physical witness aside, this test of his loyalty was going to be watched by the remaining committee members from the comfort of the conference room to ensure there would be no subterfuge on his part. In any case, Bond suspected his observer was there predominantly to keep him away from the other committee members.

He didn’t blame them. Regardless, Bond knew what he had to do.

Alec swayed just the slightest bit as the mercenary guards released him and stepped back. Pressing his lips together, Alec leveled a fierce and defiant glare at Bond, drawing a deep breath and squaring his shoulders.

Hands resting on their weapons, the four mercenaries flanked Bond and the committee twerp, forming a slight semicircle that faced Alec.

The courtyard was silent, the lack of life signs extending beyond birds, insects and animals. Not even a breeze stirred the warm humid air.

“You should never have gone after Q.” Bond intoned without heat as he adjusted his cufflinks before unholstering the Walther and raising it in his right hand.

He felt the vibration through his soles even as the American to his far left jolted and started to turn, the barrel of his weapon rising towards Bond. Caressing the trigger, Bond took down the unit leader with a double tap to the head, immediately shifting his lethal attention to the startled mercenary between them.

An enraged roar, coupled with a blur of motion in his peripheral vision, and Bond knew Alec had launched himself at the men on Bond’s right. As the second merc dropped, Bond spun, backhanding the junior committee member with his Walther. The irritating man collapsed with neither sound nor fight. Dismissing him, Bond eliminated the merc beside him and watched as Alec finished off the man with whom he wrestling, bones snapping and popping audibly as the merc’s head twisted further than any neck would allow it to go.

Just like that, it was over.

Alec looked up from where he was efficiently stripping weapons and ammunition from the corpses, remnants of the riot cuffs still wrapped around his wrists. “That was a little close, James. I’m not ashamed to say I was getting a little nervous back there.”

The annoying committee member groaned and moved to get up. “What the—?”

Without looking, Bond kicked the man in the abdomen, the steel toe hidden beneath the leather of his polished dress shoes sending the twit wheezing back to the ground. Bond watched as Alec pocketed several clips of ammunition and ensured the mini-Uzi was locked and loaded.

“As well you should have been. I was a millimetre away from executing you before home decor costs outweighed the benefits of just shooting you there.”

“You really would have shot me?” A hurt expression that Bond knew better than to fall for blossomed over Alec’s face.

“You were here to assassinate me!” Bond reminded his friend, relishing the easy snark they had always shared following life-threatening combat, yet fully aware that the mission was far for concluded.

“My primary goal was to return you to London for execution,” Alec corrected Bond primly before adding with a wolfish grin. “Killing you here would have been a bonus.”

“Apologies for the disappointment—”

Another groan from the ground and Bond broke off with a look of irritation. A careful step had fingers crunching under Bond’s heel and the junior committee member yelped in pain.

“Stop… no… please...just tell me whatyouwant...ahhh!”

Bond wasn’t a sadist by nature, but he had few qualms about doing as needs must to protect and defend England. In this case, his urgency was fueled by the knowledge that Q’s time was limited and they needed to wrap everything up and return to London as quickly as possible.

“No,” Alec stepped forward. “Allow me.”

At the feral expression on Alec’s face, Bond stepped back. Pissed off, Alec, was more intimidating than Bond could hope to be. They needed information and they needed it quickly, before it became common knowledge that the compound has been attacked from within.

Grabbing the other man’s hair in his fist, Alec forced the man’s head back, craning his neck so that he could meet Alec’s gaze. “Tell me again about your plans for the current Quartermaster.”

The man was silent, apparently thinking that keeping the information gave him some sort of power. He was sadly mistaken. When he didn’t speak, Bond helpfully offered up his earlier bragging word almost verbatim.

“I believe it was something along the lines of, “All that’s required is a little ‘accident’ to eliminate the bird currently in charge and — _bam_ — promotion time! MI6’s Quartermaster will belong to them. And soon the rest of MI6 will be powerless to stop them.”

The criminal paled to hear his words parrotted back to him.

A predatory gleam rose in Alec’s eyes. “You think you’ll own MI6? _You?_ ” Alec spat in his face contemptuously. The man flinched, closing his eyes as spittle ran down one cheek. Alec gave him a sharp shake to regain his attention, his voice as cold as the Russian steppes in winter. “I have one more question for you. Did. Dennis. Know. Did your little puppet know what you planned for Ruksana? For him?”

Shaking his head frantically, the man began to babble and beg, fully recognising his peril and instinctively trying to bargain for his life.

“No. No. He didn’t. I swear he didn’t. And you know what? Plan’s abandoned. No plan at all. In fact. I swear, I’ll never even communicate with Dennis again. I won—”

There was a familiar cracking sound and the man fell limp to the hard packed dirt. Alec stood, wiping his hands on his pants before dusting them off. Looking at his friend, he mirrored James’ raised eyebrow and shrugged. “I could hardly leave him free to wreak more havoc, now could I?"

Bond couldn't disagree and they had more urgent matters to attend to regardless. Given the cameras, it was a bloody miracle the courtyard was not swarming with security forces. He could only imagine that Q’s special gift to him had done more damage than expected. Collecting an Uzi and spare magazines for himself, he tilted his head back to the building.

“Shall we?”

~~~~~

Emergency lights lit the corridors as Bond and Alec retraced the route back to the conference room; the lack of power explaining the lack of response from what would have been on the camera feeds. Surprisingly they encountered only a few servants, all of whom seemed focused on fleeing and paid little more than a glance at the two heavily armed men before scurrying in the opposite direction.

As they drew closer to their destination, what had started as haze turned to smoke and water rained down from the building’s automated sprinkler system. Using their sleeves as makeshift filters, the two agents pressed on. Bond was beginning to wonder just how destructive the explosion had been. He had been hoping for a distraction and to possibly take out a few guards and some committee members, but had fully planned to have to return and finish the job before leaving Montenegro for good.

Feeling the ground shake from the force of the explosion had been a surprise.

_Maybe adding both sheets of explosives from Alec had been overkill._

They turned the last corner to find the heavy mahogany door was gone and the wall separating the room from the corridor now half-demolished rubble.

_Definitely overkill._

Stepping cautiously, they approached, searching for signs that any of the rooms inhabitants remained a threat.

Desultory flames flickered around the room in spite of the persistent stream of water from mangled and twisted sprinkler pipes above the scorched and shattered remnants of the conference table. 

Scanning the room, Bond could immediately account for all the guards, three bearing unmistakably mortal injuries while the fourth was barely visible, hidden beneath the remnants of the wall that had previously been at Bond’s back and had suffered the greatest damage in the blast.

The woman no longer looked beautiful or dangerous with most of the skin on her face gone, eyes staring lifelessly from where she lay half-buried by debris, next to the corpse of Bond’s former employer’s uncle.

Moving quickly from one body to the next, Bond and Alec made short work of verifying death — or, in one case, ensuring it — until a rustling sound in one corner drew Bond’s attention.

Walther at the ready, Bond kicked aside the heavily framed painting to find Villiers, wrinkle-lined face speckled with petechiae and one eye swollen almost shut, with blood smeared beneath his nose and trickling from the side of his mouth. Villiers’ hand scrabbled weakly at the front of his jacket.

Bond squatted and pushed the older man’s hand aside, reaching beneath his suit jacket to retrieve the weapon holstered there. Standing once more, he stared expressionless at the injured man as hate-filled eyes glared up at him.

“Why?” Bond asked, unable to comprehend how anyone could dedicate so much of their life to a person, a cause, and country and then betray them so utterly.

“Seriously Bond.” The disdain still present in Villiers’ faltering voice was almost palpable. “You’ve seen the money at stake. You’ve seen the power. How can you even ask that? Surely even you have a price.”

“My loyalty can’t be bought. Not when it comes to Alec. Not when it comes to Q. And not when it comes to England.”

Villiers coughed weakly. “And what will happen when one of them betrays you?”

The echoing retort of the gunshot was deafening.

Bond looked sharply at Alec, before following the line of his aim to see the blond South African committee member’s blood and brains splattered on the rubble above where he now lay, a Glock clutched in one beefy hand.

Turning his attention back to Villiers, he raised his Walther once again and caressed the trigger.

“That was the last of them.” Alec stated as Bond reholstered the Walther and rose to his feet. “Four guards, six committee members. All accounted for.”

Bond nodded but said nothing. The thought that Alec or Q might betray him was at once painful and absurd and yet he knew that was exactly what he had left Alec thinking Bond had done so many months before. Bond turned unseeing towards the now non-existent door. How to atone?

“So,” Alec’s voice drew Bond from his reverie as they traversed the deserted corridors. “How _did_ you manage to trigger the explosives from the courtyard?.”

Shaking off the guilt that haunted him, Bond met Alec’s predatory smirk with one of his own. “You’ll never guess what Q gave me.”

“No!” Stunned disbelief replaced the smirk.

Bond nodded, a proud smile on his face.

“An exploding pen?”

Bond nodded again. “The remote to trigger it is embedded in my cufflinks.”

Alec’s delighted grin mirrored his and Bond knew they were truly okay.

“Q _swore_ he’d never—” Alec started, only to have Bond cut him off.

“What can I say? He really does love me.” Worry creased Bond’s brow. “We need to get back to MI6. Especially now that we know about Dennis.”

~~~~~


	16. Chapter 16 — Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado...

A panic-induced adrenaline rush flooded Q’s body as he stared mutely at Fergusson walking towards him. An iconic black doctor’s bag containing God-knew-what swung from his hand. By the time the doctor stopped in front of the table, Q was fighting not to gasp as he struggled for breath past what felt like steel bands constricting his chest. The burly ginger doctor set his bag down with a dull thud that vibrated through the metal table; his face impassive yet curious as he studied Q.

“So St. John, how are you doing today, hm?” The doctor’s use of his surname was jarring and yet another unpleasant reminder of all that had changed.

Unsure if a proper answer even existed to describe his current state of being, Q bit the inside of his cheek to ground his anxiety and opted for silence, raising an eyebrow in response.

“Nothing to say? Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” Fergusson smiled in what Q supposed might have been intended as reassuring, but in reality did not do. Uneasy, Q shifted, trying to withdraw as far from the other man as possible given his current restraints.

The doctor huffed and moved his equipment bag to one side, sitting his bulk down heavily in the chair Ruksana had vacated. He reached across the table and beckoned at Q. “Let’s see those hands.”

Instinctively, Q pulled his still-bandaged hands towards his chest, the chains rattling before snapping taut several inches away. Q hunched forward in an instinctive effort to protect his hands; heart racing, pounding as though trying to escape his chest. He didn’t remember what all Alec had done to him — only the flash of intense pain as he blacked out — but he knew he couldn’t go through that again.

Pausing mid-reach, Fergusson narrowed his eyes at Q’s reaction before slowly lowering his hand to rest, fingers tapping slowly on the cold steel tabletop. He leaned back in his chair, watching Q with a steady gaze for several moment before speaking.

“What, exactly, are you so frightened of, St. John?”

Eyes flickering between the doctor and M, who remained standing by the door, Q glared at the blurry figures in disbelief.

“Seriously? I passed out as 006 began trying to pull my fingers apart and woke up to this!” Metal clanged as Q raised both heavily bandaged hands. “You want to know what I’m afraid of? I should think it’s fairly obvious.”

Q knew he wasn’t being rational, but hours alone in his cell, staring at the bandages hiding his ruined hands, simultaneously wanting to know and terrified of finding out just how bad the damage was, had put him in a bad place mentally. Focussing his ire on the medical professional in front of him, he blurted, “Why on earth should I trust you?”

Insulted, Fergusson reared back, raised his eyebrows and spoke heatedly. “Ye’re being held under suspicion of treason while I’m bound by my Physician’s Oath. Who would ye consider more trustworthy?”

“Enough!” M growled, stepping forward. “Joshua St. John, give the doctor your hands. Now. Or do I need to have the guards assist you?” 

Scowling mutinously at the Head of MI6, Q thrust his hands towards Fergusson. The MI6 doctor stood and opened his bag, retrieving a shiny pair of medical safety shears. Grasping Q’s right wrist, the doctor turned Q’s hand palm up and carefully began cutting through the top layer of bandages before setting aside the shears to unwrap the layers closest to his skin.

Q tensed, waiting for the onslaught of physical pain accompanied by the visual horror that was his hands. He fully expected to see yellow, purple or even blackish bruising covering swollen flesh, possibly indicative of some nightmarish permanent damage to the parts of his body he valued most after his mind. Instead, he witnessed the gradual unveiling of an unmarked, perfectly functional hand and fingers.

Wiggling the newly freed appendages, he raised his hand as close as the chains permitted to his face, leaning forward until his fingers waved centimetres from his nose, carefully inspecting his fingers and hand from all sides for signs of injury or harm. There was not a mark to be found. Q shifted confused eyes to M, who had crossed the room to stand at Fergusson’s shoulder, much as he had stood behind Ruksana earlier.

“I don’t— “ Q began, gasping from surprise as the doctor moved on to his left hand, movements slower and more gentle this time as the self adhesive wrap and gauze was peeled away. Pain throbbed this time along the darkly discoloured and swollen mound at the base of his thumb, but that was the only area of discomfort. Upon closer examination, his little finger, as well as the remainder of his hand appeared to be undamaged.

Fergusson spoke, his voice a soothing burr as he described how Q’s left thumb had been dislocated without permanently damaging the associated tendons and ligaments. “Given time and physical therapy, St. John, ye should regain full range of motion.”

Reaching into his bag again, the doctor withdrew an unadorned black rectangular box and pressed it into Q’s lax and unresisting hands.

Q stared at it, uncomprehending for a few moments before stiff fingers fumbled the hinged case open. Inside, he found a familiar pair of black rimmed spectacles. A gasp slipped out as he grabbed the glasses and flipped open the arms, sliding them through his hair to hook over his ears. 

The world came into crisp focus for the first time since Malta and Q stared at Fergusson’s non-blurry but still inscrutable face as the man calmly repacked his bag and gathered the discarded bandages he had removed from Q’s hands. The action reminded Q he could now view his hands unhindered.

Shifting his attention, Q struggled to reconcile the state of his hands with what little he remembered from his encounter with 006 on Malta. 

From personal observation of dozens of missions and the review of countless more, Q knew 006 could be meticulous and ruthless when it came to interrogation and extracting information from targets. Given the obvious and strong feelings of betrayal the agent had exhibited regarding Bond and Q’s defection from MI6 — compounded by the fact that 006 blamed Q for Bond’s actions — Q had feared the worst for his hands. The end result was that Q assumed he had blacked out from pain and terror, effectively erasing the entire horrific experience from his mind. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts as Fergusson stood, picking up his old fashioned bag and crumpling the cast-aside gauze wrappings in his fist. “Be gentle with your hand as it continues to heal. Use ice and ibuprofen gel as needed. Good day, St. John.”

With that the doctor crossed to the door, knuckles rapping on the metal to get the attention of the guard stationed outside, In short order, the door opened and Fergusson swept through it, leaving a confused Q to gape at Mallory.

“But...I don’t... Malta...006…” He stopped; his normally brilliant synapses stalling as his confused gaze flickered between his hands and the Head of MI6.

“Is an agent, not a monster.” M stared down his nose at Q, waiting for the former Quartermaster to connect the dots.

Q huffed a surprised breath, his gaze filled with accusation as he glared at M.

“You were sedated when you arrived here. I decided to take advantage of that fact as well as your familiarity with 006’s ruthlessness in the field to lend credence to the idea that your hands were badly damaged.” M’s no-nonsense tone as he continued to speak indicated he didn’t care to hear Q’s thoughts on that decision.

Apparently when Q had passed out, 006’s professionalism had kicked in to halt the torture. In a way, it was reassuring to know the agent still possessed that restraint. Perhaps he would be willing to talk to Bond instead of just killing him. From what little Q could remember from Malta, 006 _had_ wanted answers.

“This enabled us to observe your reactions and keep you mentally and emotionally off-balance during your captivity. An added benefit for us was that you were unable to escape — the bandages and your own fear effectively hobbling you.”

Q blinked, slowly realising how the numerous challenges of the past few days — probably even the bloody lukewarm tea — had been as much of a test as anything else that had happened since encountering 006 in his kitchen. Not for the first time, he felt like a rat in a maze. He could feel his pulse throb as his blood pressure rose at M’s words. Knowing — even understanding — M’s motivations did nothing to ease the sense of betrayal he felt at his former superior’s actions.

His attention only partially still on Mallory, Q reconsidered recent days and grimaced to realize how much his thought processes had slowed with the confused schedule and utter lack of mental stimulation over the past—how many days? He startled to realize he didn’t know.

“How long have I been here?” He had known all along — thanks to experience on the other side of the door — that the number of meals he had been served had not properly reflected the number of days he had been held prisoner. Knowing now that MI6 was willing to mislead him about the state of his hands, he wouldn’t even try to guess.

A glint of something like approval flashed in M’s eyes at the evidence that Q’s brain was returning to its normal manic genius processing. “Four nights.”

“ _Four_ nights?” Q stared, aghast. It had felt more like a week at least — further evidence Q was way off his game. After an additional moment’s thought, a more pressing question arose. “When did 006 leave to go after Bond?”

It was M’s turn to grimace as he answered. “Three days ago.”

“Bloody hell,” Q muttered as he realised Bond and Alec had almost certainly already met. A frisson of anxiety sparked and he wondered how that encounter had gone. The two men were practically brothers and had been for years. Even so, each was loyal to Queen and country above all else.

Soft footfalls echoed as M approached, but Q was so lost to his morbid ruminations that he still startled when the Head of MI6 grasped and maneouvered Q’s hands to access the cuffs at his wrists. Two quick twists of a key and the metal fell, the clatter as the restraints hit the steel table echoing off the bare walls of the room, causing Q to jolt a second time.

M placed the key on the table and stepped back, “I believe you can manage your feet.” 

Wasting no time, Q snagged the key and bent down to unshackle his ankles, kicking the hated cuffs to the side to distract from the fact that he palmed the key in case he needed it later. Nothing seemed certain anymore.

The opening of the door heralded Ruksana’s return, pulling Q from his dark thoughts and he looked up as she entered. Noticing Q’s freshly liberated hands, she gave an undignified squeal and scurried over to the table. She dumped the laptop she carried onto the table, unintentionally — or perhaps intentionally — shoving the cuffs off, chain rattling as they fell to the industrial tile floor. Sitting across from him, she lifted Q’s hands one after the other and examined each carefully. After cooing over the dark purplish bruising along the mound of his thumb, she raised shining eyes to his, a brilliant smile lighting her face. 

“Your hands...I don’t understand…” Her joy faded to confusion.

“Apparently M was being M,” Q groused, shooting an irritated glance in the direction of the other man as he captured her hand in his. “After all, how better to keep a keyboard jockey out of the game than to convince him he may never play again?”

A low growl rumbled from Ruksana’s throat, surprising everyone as the ferocious loyalty Q had always inspired in his staff automatically rose to his defense. Behind her, M startled, giving Ruksana an indignant glare as a fond smile curved Q’s lips. 

“It’s okay,” Q soothed, his voice the calm, commanding presence that accompanied so many agents in the field. His thumb brushing over the soft skin of the back of her hand and her fierce grip relaxed. “He was only doing what he felt was in the best interests of MI6. As it turns out, I’m actually okay, so really, I can hardly complain.”

Ruksana looked over her shoulder to glare at M for several long seconds before refocusing her attention on the laptop she had abandoned previously.

Opening it, she pressed first her index, then her ring finger to the biometric reader before typing in what some might consider a ridiculously long password. Q smiled at her careful adherence to the convoluted protocols he had put in place following the breach by Silva, back when Q had first made Quartermaster. Once she was logged in, Ruksana turned the laptop to face Q and pushed it across the table towards him.

“Go on, sir… do that thing you do so well.” She grinned impishly at Q.

Q interlaced his fingers, turned his palms out and stretched, wincing as his thumb twinged. With a glance towards M’s silent and impassive figure standing to one side, Q let his fingers fly over the keys. Huddled over a laptop, able to fully access all MI6 networks using Quartermaster credentials once more, Q rooted through the network and firewalls, deactivating his custom security protocols to locate hidden directories he had established months earlier. 

With a triumphant grin, he beckoned Ruksana to look over his shoulder as he accessed the database and logs his private programs had created, tracking odd queries and unauthorised attempts to access all systems and databases, in addition to logging network activities and physical site access logs. Peering at the screen, she let out a low whistle at the volume of data Q had amassed.

“Q,” she breathed and warm contentment flooded through Q at the unconscious appellation. 

M cleared his throat, startling them. When they looked up, he was pocketing his phone. “The two of you seem to have things well in hand. I have a few things to look into from my end. Q,” M looked pointedly at Ruksana, “You know how to reach me.”

“Yes, sir.”

A perfunctory nod of acknowledgement, then M turned with military precision to cross the room to the door, where he rapped his knuckles to signal the guard.

As the door clanged shut behind him, Q turned to Ruksana, “Do you have your tablet with you?”

She pulled it from the pocket of her lab coat and held it up with a grin.

“Brilliant! This will go a lot faster if we both dig through the data. You saw where on the network the folders are?”

Ruksana nodded, flipping open her tablet and logging on with efficient movements.

“I’ll give you access.” Q’s fingers flew over the keys. “There, you should be able to see them now.”

“I’m in. What am I looking for?”

~~~~~

“I don’t believe it.” Ruksana’s voice was flat, brooking no argument as she paced the room.

Q just looked at her; the evidence spoke for itself. Logs of months of data breaches to classified missions, including 006’s fruitless intercontinental chase. Additionally, they had discovered Q Branch’s number two geek had hacked and downloaded all available information on both 007 and Q himself only a few weeks earlier. 

Pausing, Ruksana stared at the laptop’s screen and shook her head in disbelief, turning and crossing the length of the room once more. “Not Dennis. I know him. He wouldn’t—”

“Ruksana.”

Surprise at hearing her given name cut her off and she stopped mid-pace to take a deep breath and listen.

Q rose from where he had been sitting watching her wear an invisible path in the floor. He knew how hard it was to accept that people you trusted might be working against you. Against your country. He’d had months to come to terms with the concept and even so, it was hard to believe who the second traitor was.

The stakes were too high to let her hide behind excuses.

“I like Dennis, too. Sure he can be excitable, but he’s brilliant. It’s why I promoted him. That said, everyone has a breaking point. Apparently someone found his. The question is, _what is it_? Furthermore, _what is he willing to do to protect it?_ ”

Ruksana stared at Q for several seconds before looking back at the screen and nodding slowly. A small sad smile of sober relief quirked the corners of her mouth. “Thank goodness you’re back, sir.”

Q nodded in response but said nothing.

Whether or not he was staying remained unknown. It appeared earlier that M was offering Q the opportunity to redeem himself. How the encounter between Bond and Alec went might well be the deciding factor in whether Q was exonerated or executed. Q drew breath and considered pointing that out to her when, across the room, the door flew open.

Startled, he turned to see Ruksana’s number two in Q Branch stumble through; the omnipresent guard nowhere to be seen.

The lanky thirty-something staggered to a graceless halt just inside the room, unbuttoned white lab coat fluttering around him as he fought to maintain his balance.

“Q—” Stunned grey eyes darted between Q and Ruksana before he recovered from his shock, attention never leaving Q. “Oh my god, Q, you’re recovered!” His arms flailed, hands waving erratically before raking through the wild ginger curls that stood every which way on his head. He tugged at them as he fumbled for what to say. “When did you—? Are you—? I don’t—?”

“Easy, Dennis,” Q forced a smile, wishing he had an eighth the acting chops of Bond. “Yes, I’m doing much better, thanks. I was just coordinating with Ruksana on everything that has been happening in my absence.”

The other man responded with a pained smile that looked about as authentic as Q’s felt. It was a good thing both of them were technical geniuses; clearly neither of them would last in the field. “That’s brilliant! We — Q Branch — were starting to think you might not come back — no offence Q,” Dennis added with a nod to Ruksana. 

He paused, glancing again between Ruksana and Q. “What’s going to happen now?”

The entire time, he babbled, Dennis continued to inch closer to the table between the door and Q, where Ruksana’s laptop sat. The evidence damning Dennis would be clearly visible from the right angle; a few more steps, and Dennis would know they were onto him.

Casually Q reached over to flip the screen closed and activate the security measures that would lock everyone out until Ruksana logged in again. He wasn’t quite quick enough.

Lunging the last couple of feet, Dennis caught his fingers between the lid and the keyboard, preventing the system’s automatic hibernation mode from engaging. 

Behind him, Ruksana gasped and Q stepped back, instinctively putting himself between the current Quartermaster and her second. What he wouldn’t give to have James — or heck, even Alec — in the room with him. James had been working with Q, teaching him self-defence before they left MI6, but it wasn’t like Q had had anyone to practice with over the last few months. He thought longingly of every lethal toy he had ever invented and regretted he’d somehow have to get Ruksana out of this with nothing but his wits.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Dennis chided, glancing up at them with a granite expression, all bumbling pretence evaporated. While moving towards them, Dennis’ right hand had disappeared into a voluminous coat pocket. When he extracted it, he held a 3D printed handgun Q had designed the previous year. Though made of plastic, in-house testing had proven it surprisingly accurate in close quarters. 

Some days Q swore his own brilliance worked against him.

Looking from the barrel of the weapon to expressionless steely eyes, Q froze. Cold sweat trickled down his back. There was no way this was going to end well.

Dennis’ voice was frigid as he tugged the laptop around to face him and raised the screen.

“What are you two trying to hide?”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just 2 more chapters and an epilogue to go! W00t!!! 
> 
> Again, I deeply apologize for leaving this fic updated for so long. I could fill this with excuses and explanations but in the end that's all they'd be — excuses and explanations that mean little to you when you put your faith in me as an author to tell you a complete tale. Mea culpa. 
> 
> I might have given up on this tale more than once if not for the constant nudging and repeated encouragement of @BootsnBlossoms and @terpinleather. Thank you ladies!
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine, feel free to point them out so I can resolve them!
> 
> <3 Thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments, they mean the world to me as a writer. <3


	17. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised...

“This is some sort of sadistic revenge scenario, isn’t it?” Bond glared at the open boot of Alec’s R8 Spyder, trying to imagine how on earth Alec thought he could human pretzel himself into that tight space.

“Revenge? I have no idea what you are talking about, James,” Alec claimed in a voice that oozed a little too much innocence. Bond raised a disbelieving gaze to see mirth sparkling in his friend’s green eyes. The Cossack shrugged, tailored charcoal jacket sliding along his shoulders like a second skin. “This is my car, if I drive anything else in, it will raise questions.”

“Ri-i-ight.” Grumbling under his breath, Bond climbed into the oddly shaped front boot. With a grimace, he began manoeuvring himself so that Alec could close the lid. “Do you think you could try not to drive to Vauxhall like you’re on Top Gear? I’d prefer to get there in one piece,” he grumbled, unhappy with the limited options for tucking his shoulders and elbows. He settled for what must have been the least comfortable position he had ever been forced into.

“Say cheese, James.”

He looked up only to be blinded by a flash from Alec’s phone as he snapped a photo. Before Bond could do more than growl, Alec was closing the boot with a cheerful, “Watch your head, James.”

Instinctively he ducked his head. Alec’s irritating chuckle chased him into the dark, leaving Bond cramped, cranky, and relieved he wasn’t claustrophobic. _Why had he missed Alec again? ___

__The car shifted as Alec climbed in and shut the door, followed moments later by a vibrating rumble as the engine caught. There was an abrupt physical jolt as Alec put the Audi in motion. Short distance or not, this was going to be a long ride._ _

__Twenty seemingly endless minutes later, the boot opened to reveal his best friend’s maniacal grin and the dim lighting of the garage attached to MI6._ _

__“Enjoy the ride, мой брат?”_ _

__“Your brother— Bloody hell, Alec! Do you think you might have driven here any faster? Taken corners more recklessly?”_ _

__Alec crossed his arms and scowled as Bond gingerly disentangled himself and clambered out. “I’ll have you know my driving skills are flawless.”_ _

__“Sure they are. Let’s just say you’re damned lucky I’m not prone to motion-sickness.” Bond said dismissively as he buttoned his suit jacket and tugged at his cuffs, smoothing out any residual creases from the journey._ _

__“You’re a sailor,” Alec scoffed as he closed the boot and set the alarm before pocketing his keys. The _Of course you don’t get motion-sickness _went unsaid. Some days the fact Alec knew him so well was more irritating to Bond than others.___ _

____“Now that we are here, just how are you planning to get me in the door?” Bond asked, following Alec towards the elevator up to MI6. “It’s not like I can waltz in, no questions asked.”_ _ _ _

____He had no time to think, only react, ducking as Alec spun, fist flying towards Bond’s jaw. The unexpected swing proved to be a distraction as an immediate uppercut met his downward motion, the combined momentums stunning Bond and sending him to land hard on the concrete._ _ _ _

____“Bloody hell, Alec! What was that for?” Bond swiped the back of his hand against the corner of his mouth and grimaced at the resultant red smear._ _ _ _

____“That was how we are getting you into MI6. Это было также месть за Улцинь,” Alec concluded vengefully with a self-satisfied smirk as he offered Bond a hand up. “We couldn’t have them thinking you were coming along willingly, now could we?”_ _ _ _

____“Of course not, you vindictive bastard.” Bond grumbled but accepted the proffered assistance, using the leverage to head-butt Alec in the bridge of his nose. The Cossack fell back a step but retained his grip on Bond’s hand. He grunted and grinned at Bond before sweeping his foot out and knocking Bond back to the pavement. Bond’s tight grip ensured Alec followed and the two men exchanged hits and Russian curses before they rolled to a stop against the tyres of Alec’s Audi. Pulling apart, they stared at each other, breathing harshly._ _ _ _

____Booming laughter echoed through the garage as Alec stood and brushed himself off, shaking his head at minor stains on his sleeves and a tear in his trousers. “It’s good to have you back, James. Even if my tailor would disagree.”_ _ _ _

____Rolling to his feet, Bond raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You lie, you Slavic devil. He loves the extra business I send his way!”_ _ _ _

____Alec grinned, proud and unrepentant as he gestured at an equally disheveled Bone. “ _Now_ they might accept you as my prisoner.” He pulled a pair of plastic riot cuffs from his pocket and tossed them at Bond. “Be a good man, James; put those on.”_ _ _ _

____Shaking his head, an amused grin on his face at Alec’s unorthodox methods, Bond slipped the cuffs over his left wrist, careful not to actually tighten the unforgiving plastic, before putting both arms behind his back and threading his right hand through the remaining loop._ _ _ _

____“Хорошо!” Alec clapped his hands together in approval. “Now, James, I would apologise, but I must admit I am not truly sorry for this.”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“Wha—?”_ _ _ _

____Pain jolted through Bond’s body, in flash originating in his right hip, accompanied by a loud _sizzle-pop_ as darkness fell._ _ _ _

______ _ _

~~~~~

The next thing Bond was aware of was the topsy-turvy view of a familiar charcoal Italian wool covered arse. _Dammit, Alec, where the hell did that stun gun come from?_ he thought and shifted, trying to draw a decent breath against the shoulder firmly planted in his solar plexus. A heavy hand landed on Bond’s buttocks, warning him to still even as Mallory’s cold and neutral voice spoke.

“I thought your mission was clear, 006.”

“With all due respect, sir, the mission was wrong,” Alec stated as he marched across the room. Bending forward, he dumped Bond none too gently onto the leather covered settee in Mallory’s office. Bond gave a moment’s thanks Alec had not bound his feet as well and used them to brace himself, shuffling his hips until his undignified sprawl was more of a slouch and he could watch the exchange between his friend and their boss. His fingers deftly worked at the loose plastic bindings, working first his thumb and then his entire hand free, though he kept his arms hidden behind him.

Mallory sent a calculating look towards Bond, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Is that so?”

“You didn’t have all the facts. There’s a traitor here at MI6.”

“Actually, there are two traitors here,” Mallory started, looking pointedly between the two agents. He paused, waiting to see what either of them might have to say when the intercom on his desk phone chimed. 

“Sir?” Moneypenny’s voice sounded through the speaker, crisp and professional. “Daniel Pierson is here to see you.”

Bond’s gaze shot to Alec’s and an entire conversation was held in the the time it took Mallory to respond. This was it. This was why they were here. Bond gave a slight nod and turned his attention to Mallory, who was watching them with a level, evaluating, almost expectant look. 

Reaching over to press the button to reply, he responded, “Give me five minutes and send him in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eyes narrowed, M refocused his attention on Alec and Bond. “007, stop faking. I know you’re no more bound by handcuffs than you were brought here unwilling.” Mallory pulled a knife from his pocket and tossed it in Bond’s direction. 

Instinctively, Bond caught the spring-assisted pocket knife and flicked it open, ignoring Alec’s offended stare as he dropped the charade. He shrugged and focused instead on cutting through the loop of plastic still attached to one wrist. There was a reason Mallory had been tapped to step into M’s shoes.

Mallory continued, proving Bond’s assessment correct with his next words. “And 006, while I appreciate the apparent effort you went to to make 007’s ‘capture’ seem authentic, I imagine this,” he waved a hand at Bond’s less than impeccable appearance “was more about getting satisfaction for Bond’s lack of communication over the last several months.”

A bemused huff escaped Bond as the plastic fell away from his wrist. He closed the knife and tossed it back to Mallory who caught it without shifting his attention from Alec.

“006, I do not disagree that, in hindsight, the mission was incorrect. That said, I would be amiss if I did not acknowledge my relief to learn you are as inept at following orders as ever.”

The indignant expression on Alec’s face might have been amusing had Mallory not turned to Bond. “As for you, 007, it is neither your job nor your responsibility to go rogue in an effort to save MI6 from itself.”

Bond felt his back stiffen at the admonishment. He opened his mouth, wanting to know just what Mallory knew when he realised what was going on. “You’ve spoken to Q.”

“I’ve spoken with St. John,” Mallory corrected mildly. “I speak with Q on a daily basis.”

Bond couldn’t hide his flinch at the reminder of all Q had given up when they had left. 

He was trying to determine what all Mallory knew when the Head of MI6 turned and walked around his desk to sit down and reshuffle some files and papers before commenting in a dismissive tone.

“Now, I suggest you both get comfortable as we are about to have company.” He gave them a cursory glance. “I imagine you _are_ interested in what Pierson has to say...”

The reminder that their target was about to walk through the door, stirred both Bond and Alec into action before Mallory could finish. Bond stood, adjusted his suit, and followed Alec to the sidebar in the corner, where the Russian was already decanting two glasses of Mallory’s finest Irish whiskey.

No sooner had Alec passed Bond a glass then the door opened and the head of Analysis and Intentions stormed into Mallory’s office. Pierson’s off-the-peg suit was rumpled and his expression irate as he stalked across the room to where Mallory sat calm and collected behind his desk. Bracing his hands against the polished wood, Pierson loomed across the desktop in a misguided attempt to intimidate the head of MI6.

“I just came up from Q Branch,” he stated, causing Alec and Bond to exchange a look of alarm. What had Pierson be doing in Q Branch?

Mallory was unmoved. “What do you need, Pierson?”

“I was unable to locate either Q or that annoying twit she calls her second in command. Why have all the missions been cancelled and agents recalled?” Pierson demanded, irate. “My department is waiting for critical data from at least two of the missions that were halted.”

“We had a _situation_ this morning that Q is working on. Once that has been taken care of, we will see about resuming missions on a priority basis. Which missions concern you?” Mallory’s voice was mild, but Bond recognized the edge of steel in it, even if Pierson remained obtuse.

“This never would have happened under the old Q,” Pierson huffed.

“Be that as it may, I have no concerns with how Q runs her department. Do you wish to file a complaint? You seem rather stressed.”

“I wish MI6 had an effective and efficient technical support division, but that’s neither here nor there. For now, I need to know what’s happening in a village in Montenegro.”

There it was. Pierson was frantic to know what had happened at the compound. It was practically a confession. Bond gave a slight nod to Alec whose eyes narrowed in predatory acknowledgement. Alec smirked and raised his drink in silent toast before taking a healthy swallow of whiskey. 

Setting his glass back on the sideboard, Alec buttoned his jacket and turned to face the head of Analysis and Intentions. As Alec crossed the thick carpet, towards the executive mole, his voice was the cool and neutral tone Bond remembered from uncounted missions together.

“Sir.”

Pierson jolted at realizing he and Mallory were not alone as he had assumed. He spun around, eyes widening at the sight of the two bedraggled agents.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” the Russian offered in an almost deferential tone.

Bond could almost picture the expression on Alec’s face — cordial and professional, but so very cold. 

The Head of Analysis and Intentions took an unsteady step back before stopping himself and squaring his shoulders. “006, I was... not aware you were here.”

His gaze slipped past Alec to settle on where Bond stood; Bond recognized the moment Pierson realized he was buggered.

“What’s he doing here?” Pierson turned back to Mallory, who had risen to stand behind his desk, his right hand tucked behind his leg. Eyes wide with panic, Pierson pointed at Bond and shouted. “He’s rogue! A traitor!”

Bond slammed his glass down so hard it was a wonder the crystal didn’t shatter. “You have a lot of nerve.” He stalked past Alec, grabbing Pierson’s accusatory finger and twisted, using a combination of surprise, momentum, and leverage to force the other man facedown on Mallory’s desk.

Red-faced, Pierson grunted and continued to rage, writhing in an effort to twist out of Bond’s tenacious grasp. “Mallory, what’s going on here? Mallory!”

In response, Bond increased the pressure he was exerting on Pierson’s twisted arm, wordlessly threatening serious damage unless all struggling ceased. With a yelp and a pain-filled gasp, the fifty-something, overweight, paper-pusher stopped fighting and growled, “I demand to know why I’m being treated like this by some treasonous agent who should be dead, not threatening an MI6 Branch Head.”

Bond leaned close to his prisoner’s ear and whispered harshly, “So, you think traitors deserve to die, Pierson?” 

When the other man didn’t respond, Bond grabbed a fistful of the thick silvered hair and yanked so that Pierson was forced to glare up at Mallory.

“Yes,” he spat out belligerently before Bond bounced his head off the polished mahogany desktop, adding a split lip to the indignities he had already inflicted on the out-of-shape man before spinning and shoving him to the carpet at Alec’s feet.

“Well then,” Bond smoothed his palms down his jacket front, brushing away nonexistent lint. Meeting Mallory’s eyes, he continued in an even tone. “You should be pleased to hear that Michael Villiers has been duly executed for high treason against Queen and Country.”

Mallory’s eyebrow rose, but he said nothing as he looked at Bond and Alec, standing silent guard over Pierson who was on hands and knees in the middle of Mallory’s office.

Alec spoke up, his voice an icy counterpart to the angry heat Bond radiated. “You went to Q Branch because you wanted to know what was happening in Ulcinj, no? James and I just returned from there, so perhaps we can help, seeing as Q is otherwise occupied…”

A slow smile spread across Alec’s face as he watched horror dawn on Pierson’s. “Surely you didn’t believe that rumor you passed along — that James had gone rogue? _Tsk, tsk, tsk_ ” Bond was somewhat impressed by Alec’s ability to pretend he had never doubted Bond. 

“Your so-called employers are gone, no need to worry about upsetting them. If I were you, I’d be more worried about upsetting me.”

“Actually, he should worry about upsetting _me_ ,” Mallory cut in. “After all, I’m the one who commands the Double O’s.” He focused his attention on the disgraced MI6 executive. “So, Pierson, is there anything you would like to tell me?”

“Go to hell,” Pierson ground out as he stared up at the Head of MI6, defiant despite the nervous sweat beading along his upper lip.

A small predatory grin curved Mallory’s lips. “Very well, I’ll see you there then. Gentlemen, would you care to escort Mr. Pierson to our facilities belowstairs?”

“With pleasure, M. With pleasure.” Bond said.

He nodded at Alec and they each leaned down and grabbed an arm, hauling the struggling man to his feet. Pressing close to Pierson’s ear, Bond growled, “Go ahead. Struggle. Give me a reason to hurt you. You can find out first hand how MI6 deals with traitors.”

Pierson’s ruddy complexion paled. He ceased fighting with his captors and allowed the two agents to steer him from the room.

The door opened as they approached and Tanner barged in without knocking, a flustered Moneypenny trailing close behind. 

“Pardon me, M, but this couldn’t wait.”

Tanner paused, out of breath, and dabbed at his flushed face with a handkerchief. His startled gaze flew around the room, taking in the presence of both Double O’s who flanked the erstwhile Head of Analysis and Intentions, gripping his elbows with white-knuckled fingers. Given the blood seeping from his nose, Pierson was clearly not having a good day. 

The Chief of Staff stopped blotting his receding hairline and lowered his hand as his brow furrowed in momentary confusion.

“What is it, Tanner?”

Displaying the aplomb and discretion that made him uniquely qualified for his role at MI6, Tanner swallowed his questions and squared his shoulders, refocussing all his attention on Mallory.

As the trio moved to continue past Tanner and Moneypenny and out the door, Bond heard Tanner say, “Sir, we appear to have a situation belowstairs. There’s been a report of gunshots from Sublevel 3.”

They froze mid-step and Bond glanced at Alec who nodded once. Sublevel 3 was the most secure detention level at MI6. Bond looked back at Mallory as Tanner continued. “Closed circuit surveillance on that floor has been disabled, so we’re not certain what exactly is happening.”

Pausing, Tanner sent a questioning look at Bond before returning his attention to M who nodded for Tanner to continue. The Chief of Staff's Adam’s apple bobbed once before his next words sent a chill down Bond’s spine.

“Sir, it could be St.John...”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to @BootsnBlossoms and @terpinleather for their support and encouragement as I limp towards the end, I couldn't do it without you, ladies!
> 
> Unbeta'd and not Brit-picked. As always, all mistakes are mine, feel free to point them out so I can resolve them!
> 
> <3 Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments, they mean the world to me as a writer. <3


	18. Sacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to @terpinleather and @BootsnBlossoms, without whom this chapter would be mothballed for who knows how long... Love you, ladies! <3
> 
> Still not Brit-picked. Con-crit still welcome. All errors, willingly owned. =D

“Why did you do it?” Q felt the other man would soon know they were on to him, so why not opt for a surprise offensive? Maybe Dennis would let something slip. “Seriously, Dennis? You had to know we’d find out.”

The traitorous Q Branch technical lead’s eyes widened as he looked up from the laptop. His gaze darted around the mostly empty room before re-settling on his former boss as he feinted in response. “Find out what? What are you talking about?”

Shifting to keep himself between Dennis and Ruksana, Q leveled a stare at the man he had promoted from obscurity in the bowels of Q Branch shortly after taking the title of Quartermaster. Dennis was smart, one of the brightest at MI6. Q could not understand why Dennis had turned. 

He needed to find a way to defuse the situation, but damned if he knew how. James was always more adept at talking his way out of these situations. _How the bloody hell did he do it?_

Q sighed internally; when all else failed, go with the truth. “I know you’re a mole for an international cartel seeking to influence the world’s biggest economies and compromise the most powerful militaries.”

Impossible as it seemed, Dennis’ eyes grew larger. 

Bullseye.

“Silence,” Dennis ordered, waving the innocuous looking, but actually quite lethal, plastic gun at them with a hand that trembled.

Determined to delay for as long as possible, and maybe even understand what went wrong, Q forced himself to ignore the threat — easier said than done — and kept his voice calm and inflectionless as he continued to seek answers. He had faced down an enraged 006, after all, what was one frightened technical boffin? 

Apart from armed. 

And desperate. 

And quite probably dangerous.

Q remembered reading somewhere that fear and desperation made for a more volatile mix than anything else and resolved to do everything he could to get Ruksana out of there. Which meant keeping the other man’s attention and aggression focused on Q. He persisted, “What I don’t know is why, Dennis? Why did you do it?”

“Shut up!” Dennis took a step back and scrubbed at his face with his left hand, his shaky aim never leaving Q.

“Why did you compromise everything we’ve worked for? Turn your back on your team? We’re a family—”

“SHUT. UP. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Q raised an eyebrow at the outburst, but otherwise kept his face expressionless. Months of working with high-strung agents and stressed-out engineers had inured him to emotional outbursts. “Enlighten me, then.”

His mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times as Dennis struggled for what to say. Q waited, patient. How could Dennis possibly justify what had happened; what he had done? Raising his chin, Dennis seemed to reach a decision, blurting, “They found my sister!”

“Your sister?” Ruksana gasped from behind him. Q raised his right arm in an effort to stop her as he heard soft footsteps moving forward.

“You don’t have a sister!” Q challenged, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, he does.” Ruksana corrected in a soft voice, from just behind him. “She’s three years older. Thier mum gave her up for adoption at birth. Dennis found out about her a year ago and has been quietly searching for her.” 

“Apparently not so quietly if the cartel found her first.” Q lowered his arm and sighed, shaking his head in disgust. His brow furrowed and lips pursed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you come to me, Dennis? We could have ensured her safety.”

“You don’t understand. She’s already on their payroll.” 

“What?” Q was flabbergasted. _How did that even work?_

Thankfully, Dennis continued, unfazed by Q’s interruption.

“I mean, of course she doesn’t know what they really do, but she’s employed by one of the legitimate business fronts. She’s all I have, Q. We’ve never even met, but she’s all I have.” Dennis’ voice broke.

Q’s breath caught in sympathy. He understood that sense of familial isolation well. Until joining MI6, he had had no one at all, but in time, he had made his own tribe of geeks in Q Branch, gradually extending it to a select few others at MI6, such as Bond and Alec. And Tanner. He grimaced at the memory of Tanner’s recent acrimonious visit and forced himself to focus on the present.

He wished there was another answer, but at this point, there was no way Dennis was going to get out of this unscathed. He had committed treason as a trusted member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. While not at Q’s level of threat to Her Majesty, Dennis was enough of a high-level risk that in all likelihood he would spend the remainder of his life in prison, prohibited access to any and all technology. 

It wasn’t a fate Q would wish on anyone, but at least Dennis would be alive.

Probably. Unless everything spiralled even further out of control, which Q had to admit appeared increasingly likely. Dennis was still armed and Q had no illusions regarding what might befall the other man if Ruksana — Q, he corrected himself — was harmed. 

And what had happened to the guard stationed outside the door?

Focused on disarming the threat in front of him, Q failed to realize Ruksana had continued slinking up until she was on his immediate right, between Q and the table with the laptop, and entirely too close to Dennis for Q’s comfort.

“Dennis, listen to me,” Ruksana inched forward, hands raised in an effort to defuse the situation. Q wanted nothing more than to keep her safe behind him — it was his responsibility to keep his staff safe. However, he had to accept the reality that _Ruksana_ was the Quartermaster now. _She_ was the person in charge of Q Branch. 

Q had been out of picture for months and no longer possessed any authority whatsoever. Ruksana had promoted Dennis to her former role as Second. They had a rapport. _Maybe she could get through to Dennis…_

Without warning, Dennis lunged forward and grabbed Ruksana’s right forearm, pulling her off balance. Stumbling a few steps, she bounced against Dennis’ chest before pushing upright to stand before him. 

“Oi!!” Ruksana yelped. Before Q could react, she cupped her hands and boxed her subordinate's ears.

Dennis howled in shock and pain, arms thrashing about; gun no longer aimed at anyone.

Q dove forward in an effort get control of the gun, or at least disarm Dennis before someone was shot. He collided with Ruksana, who Dennis had shoved backwards in response to her attack. 

Bouncing off Q, Ruksana lost her balance and fell into the immovable steel table with a muffled groan. There was a loud crash of shattering plastic and Q instinctively winced at the demise of Ruksana’s high end laptop as it hit the industrial tile floor. 

The unexpected impact with Ruksana deflected Q’s planned trajectory, sending him into Dennis’ hip instead of his arm. Even so, Q had the element of surprise and his momentum took them both to the floor in a tumble of flying limbs. 

Dennis let out a soft _whuff_ of sound; his body unintentionally cushioned Q’s landing. 

A jolt of pain buzzed along Q’s arm as his right elbow nailed the unforgiving floor.

The two men rolled, grappling for the weapon with single-minded intensity. Q had both hands wrapped around the plastic barrel, twisting in an effort to pry it from his opponent’s hands, but he quickly found himself at a disadvantage. His back was pinned to the floor with Dennis looming over him, when inspiration struck.

A fragment of memory flickered from when James and Alec had started teaching Q self-defence so many months before. 006’s gruff voice echoed in his mind, _“Screw form. Screw fair. You’re not fighting for bloody points Q, you’re fighting for your life.”_

Grunting with effort, Q tightened his abdominals, curling his entire body, so that even as he headbutted Dennis, his knee found purchase in the other man’s bollocks.

The report when the gun fired was deafening.

~~~~~

Bond emerged from the emergency stairwell on Sublevel Three, Alec close at his heels. His reaction to Tanner’s announcement in M’s office had been automatic. Bond had coldcocked the struggling former Head of Analysis and Intentions before shoving him at Moneypenny. 

_“Take care of this, would you?” He gave the former field agent his signature charismatic smile, relieving her of the weapon she carried concealed at the same time._

_“Bond!” Eve protested as he left her unarmed with a prisoner._

_“Sorry, luv, must run. Here, have this.” Alec’s apology was punctuated by a familiar_ sizzle-pop _before his footsteps followed Bond through M’s outer office, racing for the nearest stairwell._

As he moved through the corridor, Bond ejected the clip and took stock of the firearm he had acquired. Full clip. Nine millimetre. Kimber. _Excellent choice._ He nodded approvingly.

He glanced sideways at Alec, moving like a lethal spectre beside him. Despite the circumstances, there was a level of comfort found in working side-by-side once more. In situations such as this, being able to work with someone who knew you well enough to anticipate your every action was reassuring. He did not have to be concerned with being shot by friendly fire.

Alec’s familiar Glock was in hand as they approached the intersection of the hallway they were in with the one leading to the interrogation rooms. Pausing at the corner, Bond crouched low and peered around. 

An uniformed guard was lying motionless in a dark puddle next to an open doorway, but otherwise the hallway was empty.

A sharp crash of metal and plastic sounded. Less than a minute later, a gunshot echoed through the corridor, spurring Bond into motion. He sprinted towards the guard and the open door as muted thrashing came from the interrogation room. Bond didn’t have to look to know Alec was right behind him. 

Without hesitation, Bond shoved open the half-closed door and dove through. Even as he rolled across the floor, Bond was scanning the room for targets.

No one was standing, though there were three other bodies on the floor, near where the table and chairs were permanently affixed in the center of the room. Two of the bodies were writhing together, apparently wrestling for supremacy, limbs thrashing as groans and grunts interspaced breathless curses. 

Bond’s breath caught as he recognized a familiar head of messy dark hair.

_Q._

He dragged his attention away to survey the rest of the room for additional threats.

Ruksana was motionless, lying amidst the scattered shards of plastic that had probably once been a laptop. Her hair had slipped its messy bun and lay in a growing pool of blood leaking from a cut near her temple. She appeared unconscious but the movement of her chest showed she was breathing.

Leaving her to Alec, Bond scrabbled to his feet and headed for where Q fought with who could only be the Q Branch mole — Dennis.

Bright red smears stained the tile near where two men struggled, though the source was not immediately apparent due to ongoing struggle.

The two men seemed oblivious to the appearance of Bond and Alec, their focus solely on attempting to subdue each other. Gaining the upper hand, Q rolled them so that he was lying half atop Dennis, his back to Bond.

Bond’s heart caught in his throat as he saw a what looked like a asymmetric crimson Rorschach inkblot crawling above Q’s left hip.

Q appeared unaware he had been injured; both hands were wrapped around the other man’s wrist, repeatedly slamming Dennis’ hand against the hard cold floor. “Give up, damn it! Let. Go.”

The hand was white-knuckled, clutching what looked like a toy gun made from bluish-grey plastic; the barrel currently pointing toward where Ruksana was sprawled. 

Not pausing to think, Bond took two running steps and kicked like a top-scoring footballer in the final seconds of a match.

There was a sickening crunch as his shoe made contact with the side of Dennis’ head and the man ceased struggling, his hand falling open to release the weapon.

Bond looked down and nudged with his shoe, sending the weapon skidding across the floor. 

Q pushed up to his knees, endearing green eyes peering at Bond through glasses with cracked lenses. “James?”

“Q.”

Sinking to his knees, Bond reached for his boffin, intending to ease him away from the traitor. He didn’t know if Dennis was alive or not, and frankly, he didn’t care. Bond needed to be certain Q was alright.

“C’mere, Q.”

“I… I don’t feel so—” Q swayed and Bond lunged for him as he collapsed.

Shifting so that he was sitting with Q half-lying his lap, Bond tugged his tie loose, folding it into a compress to hold against Q’s bloody side. Q flinched as Bond pressed into the wound.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bond murmured, hating that he was hurting Q when this was the first time they had seen one another in months. He wanted to see how badly Q was injured, but was scared to let up on the pressure he was applying.

“S’okay. You’re okay…” Q’s voice drifted off as he reached up to brush long fingers against Bond’s jaw.

Bond captured Q’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm.

“I’m fine, Q. And you’re going to be fine, you hear me, Quartermaster?” Bond’s voice was gruff and his throat felt tight. His lips stretched into a smile that felt more like a grimace.

Q’s mouth curved into a ghost of a smile and his eyes crinkled. “James, I—” he broke off, coughing.

With Q cradled in his arms, one hand still holding the ruined tie against Q’s side, Bond looked at Alec who was crouched next to Ruksana’s still form, fingers tracking the pulse in her neck. Alec’s worried expression spoke volumes.

Bond glanced back at Q, but his eyes were closed, dark lashed still against pale cheeks, and his breath was growing shallow.

“Where the hell is Medical?” Bond roared.

In the hallway, they could hear the sound of running footsteps drawing closer.

~~~~~

Awareness came slowly. Q was so very cold; his teeth chattered uncontrollably and his entire body felt stuffed with cotton. Unable to force coherent words due his foggy brain, Q grunted his discomfort, “C-c-c-c—”. 

What felt like warm towels were draped over his shivering body and an unfamiliar but soothing voice murmured, “Shhh, just rest.”

Losing the battle to open his eyes, he let the warm darkness carry him away.

~~~~~

Forcing lead-lidded eyes open, Q glared at the blurry room. This was getting old. The good news was that he was not back in his cell. However, given the annoying rhythmic beeping coming from the stand near his his head, it appeared he was in Medical instead. 

_What the—?_

The medicated fog in his brain receded and flashes from earlier flickered through his memory. The was a gun. An unhinged Dennis. Ruksana. An altercation that involved him rolling around on the floor. And a gunshot.

_Oh, just hell._

Q lifted the bedding to peer beneath the sheet, flinching as the movement jostled the IV taped to the back of his right hand, but when he looked, all he could see was the stupid white hospital gown down to mid thigh.

There was a vague memory of cold fire burning low on his left side earlier, as he struggled with Dennis.

The frequency of the beeping increased as Q carefully prodded at the area just over his hip and felt a dull throb in response.

He had definitely been shot. Q wondered how that struggle had ended and couldn’t shake an image of James standing over him, looking like some murderous angel.

Wiggling his feet, Q saw the blankets move. Good, his legs and feet were okay. There were no casts or bandages on his precious hands or arms, so those were fine. It seemed that the only real damage was to his side.

Movement from his peripheral vision drew Q’s attention to the door slowly swinging open and he squinted in an effort to see who his visitor was.

Q recognized the stride of the suited figure before he stopped at the foot of Q’s bed.

“James,” he breathed, relieved to see his agent and lover standing before him, safe and whole. Raising his untethered left hand, Q beckoned the agent towards him.

Even to Q’s unfocused eyes, Bond’s brilliant smile was unmistakable.

Setting the bag and takeaway hot beverage cup on the rolling bedside table, Bond crossed to Q, taking Q’s hand in his gentle grasp and leaning down to press warm lips firmly against Q’s.

“Don’t ever do that again, Q.” Bond’s voice was raspy as he stared hard at Q, the fingers of one hand brushing Q’s fringe off his forehead.

Thinking about everything that had happened since they had last seen one another, Q scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “To what exactly were you referring?”

“Q,” Bond groaned, looking as though he was the one in physical pain.

“James,” Q deadpanned in response. If Bond wanted an answer, he could bloody well be clear.

Blue eyes rolled heavenward and Bond legitimately growled. “You were wrestling Dennis for control of what looked like a toy gun but, going by the bullet they dug out of your side, was all too bloody real.”

He leveled a glare at Q that had made other agents cower. Q was unfazed and quirked an eyebrow. In all honesty, he had to admit that his facade of nonchalance was likely foiled by the fact that Q was mostly blind without his spectacles. _Speaking of_.

“I don’t suppose my glasses are around here anywhere?” Q glanced around halfheartedly, knowing the odds of _him_ actually seeing his glasses were slim.

Shaking his head, Bond frowned. “They were broken in the scuffle.”

“Bollocksl!” Q cursed.

Bond’s eyes widened at Q’s unusual profanity, so Q explained his agitation, “I just got that bloody pair after being without for days.”

Knowing Q’s loathing of his extreme shortsightedness, Bond winced in sympathy. He reached inside the front of his suit jacket to withdraw a slim spectacle case. “Well, that explains Fergusson’s comment about ungrateful boffins always breaking their equipment,” he teased as he passed it over.

“Oi!” Q protested, snatching the case and fumbling to open it, nearly dropping its contents in his eagerness to see clearly again.

Pushing the new glasses up his nose, Q tried to glare at Bond but they had been apart too many months for his ire to last. Instead, he stared at Bond, drinking in the sight of him standing immaculate in his Savile Row suit. It had been far too long since they had seen one another. Before long, he was grinning at his lover like an imbecile.

“C’mere you.” Grasping Bond’s tie, he tugged the agent down for a lingering kiss, tasting the unsweetened coffee Bond had been drinking when he arrived at Q’s room. Q moaned as Bond ended the kiss, straightening to stare down at Q with a wrecked expression. Taking Q’s hand, Bond interlaced their fingers, thumb brushing Q’s knuckles.

“God, Q. Do you have any idea how I felt, hearing that gunshot and then go in there to find to fighting with that traitor, blood smeared on the floor around and under you?”

Q just stared at Bond, willing him to realize what he had said and to whom.

Bond huffed, releasing Q’s hand as he recognised his own double standard. Turning, Bond plucked the bag and his coffee cup from the rolling table. “Moving on. How can I get one of those toy guns? Did you know Q Branch had those?”

“I developed them, 007. Don’t think that topic is done just because you want more toys.” Q adopted a professional tone in an effort to rein Bond in. Before he could say anything else, Bond plopped the bag on Q’s lap. 

Curious, Q investigated its contents and found a chocolate croissant. His favourite. He beamed at Bond and tore the end off, popping it into his mouth and closing his eyes. The moan he made at the taste of rich chocolate may have been obscene, but he didn’t care. Bond had heard Q make worse. Hell, he’d been the cause of them.

Q opened his eyes to see Bond holding a cup of water out for him. Taking it, he washed the sweet pastry down before redirecting the conversation. “Now, given the fact that you are walking around free and clear, can I deduce M has seen fit to call off the dogs?”

“Are you calling Alec a dog?” Bond smirked and the heart monitor beeped faster at the mention of Alec’s name.

Q shoved another bite into his mouth, heedless of the crumbs falling everywhere. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with the Double O the next time they encountered each other; the encounter in Malta was too fresh, too raw. Even so, he didn’t want to cause additional friction between the two friends. Q had yet to hear the details of their reunion on the Continent, the mischievous glint in Bond’s eyes spoke volumes. Eyes narrowed, Q snarked, “If the bespoke suit fits.”

“To answer your question, M has been brought up to date on our unauthorised activities over the past several months. Pierson is in custody. You and I have been cleared of all charges, though M is less than thrilled with how we handled things.”

“You said Pierson is in custody, what about Dennis?”

Bond hesitated.

“What happened to Dennis?” Q asked again with steel in his voice.

Bond met Q’s gaze straight on. “Dennis is dead.”

Q nodded slowly; he’d had a feeling that was the case. He swallowed, feeling nauseated and regretting the bites of croissant he’d already consumed. Even though Q personally would have preferred death to being imprisoned for the rest of his life, the thought that he had killed someone he had considered a friend was… problematic. “Was it… did I…?”

“No, Q,” Bond’s voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “You were both wrestling for control of the gun when I arrived. I dispatched him and called for Medics for you and Ruksana.”

Relief mixed with guilt at the realization that Bond had killed Dennis for him. Yes, it _was_ what Bond did, but Q knew Bond was not immune to the death he inflected. At least since they met, Bond had developed better mechanisms for coping with it.

Q stared at the pastry bag in his lap as the rest of Bond’s words sank in. His eyes darted up to Bond’s in alarm. “Oh god, Ruksana! How could I forget? What happened to her? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine. A few stitches from where she hit her head on the edge of the table and a mild concussion but she’s been released home. Alec’s with her to make certain she actually rests, rather than logging into work from home.” Bond gave Q and meaningful look and Q had the grace to look abashed. Maybe he had been known to ignore that advice from Medical a time or two.

It wasn’t like Bond could talk.

“Eat your croissant,” Bond ordered, pointedly ignoring the annoying electronic beeping as it gradually calmed once more.

Q finished the pastry in thoughtful silence as Bond sipped his coffee. He needed to figure out how to address the situation between himself and 006, but there was no easy answer. When the last crumb was gone, he folded up the bag. Taking a deep breath, Q looked up at Bond.

“About Alec—” he started and stalled.

A small smile curved Bond’s lips, but his eyes were sad. He knew then.

Bond’s next words confirmed it. “I know, Q.”

“I don’t… I know… I just…” Q had no idea what he wanted to say.

Bond silenced Q’s stilted ramblings with a kiss.

“We’ll figure something out.”

~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that remains is the Epilogue...
> 
> <3 Thanks again for all your kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, and PATIENCE as we made this journey. <3


	19. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue
> 
> Well aware of how much Q and James had missed their friends and coworkers during their self-imposed exile, Alec had made himself scarce at after-hour events and gatherings. Not wanting to intrude on Q’s reintegration to MI6, he had sought and received every available assignment overseas for the past twelve weeks, not staying in London any longer than it took to trade out mission kits.

Alec looked up as tyres squealed on concrete, smiling reflexively as Bond’s silver DB11 zipped into the parking space alongside his Spyder. Huffing a laugh at his best friend’s dramatic entrance, Alec climbed out and pocketed his keys before waiting next to the boot for Bond to alight. 

“Поторопитесь, James,” he urged when the other man lingered. For once he was almost eager to return his intact kit and deliver the encrypted drive he had brought back. Perhaps he’d luck out and R would happen to be around.

“What, no welcome back?” James rounded his car and pulled Alec into an enthusiastic bear hug. 

Alec returned the greeting, glad to see his closest friend, not that he was willing to say so and risk overly inflating James’ ego. He’d learned long ago that way lay madness.

“You’ve been on holiday, not some mission. Unlike _some_ of us.” Alec snorted as he rolled his eyes and dropped his arms. Stepping back, he turned to lead the way to the lift that would take them to the MI6 main lobby.

As expected, James fell in step with him, even as he cheerfully plead his case.

“Alec, don’t be like that! _Someone_ had to go retrieve the Bright Star from Malta. Might as well be someone who knows how she sails. Especially given the unpredictability of winter seas.” James smiled guilelessly, blue eyes twinkling, but Alec had spent years playing poker with him and knew better, especially given James’ next words. “And how was Riga?”.

Peeling off his leather driving gloves, Alec tucked them into the pocket of his charcoal wool coat. Riga in late November was a fair bit colder than London, and not something Alec cared to think about now that it was past. 

“Cold, as expected.” He growled and glowered at James’ tanned smirking visage before continuing. “It’s good to be home.”

Alec looked over to see a soft smile flicker across his friend’s face as James agreed, “Yeah, it is.”

Familiar guilt tightened in his gut, but Alec forced himself to smile as he asked, “How’s your boffin?”

James reached out to press the lift call button before turning to fully face Alec. He stared without speaking, and Alec knew James could read the guilt that continued to haunt him. “Q doesn’t blame you, Alec. If anything, he admires your restraint. You _could_ have seriously injured him.”

“I _did_ seriously injure him. He was unable to work for weeks!”

“And that was due to Dennis _shooting_ him, Alec, not his thumb being dislocated.”

Alec winced at the visceral memory of pulling Q’s thumb and feeling it slip the joint. He was haunted by the frantic pleas and cries that ensued. Staring unseeing at James, Alec remembered everything as though it had just happened. He couldn’t blame the way Q had pretty much avoided being alone or in close quarters with Alec since resuming his duties as the head of Q Branch. 

After trying to visit Q in Medical and eavesdropping on a conversation between James and Q, Alec knew that even mention of his name was enough to trigger a panic attack. Consequently, he had quietly retreated, thoughts scrambling to determine what, if anything, he could do to ease the tension between himself and his best friend's partner.

Well aware of how much Q and James had missed their friends and coworkers during their self-imposed exile, Alec had made himself scarce at after-hour events and gatherings. Not wanting to intrude on Q’s reintegration to MI6, he had sought and received every available assignment overseas for the past twelve weeks, not staying in London any longer than it took to trade out mission kits. 

Mentally, physically and emotionally, Alec was exhausted and he knew James could read it on his face. There was only so long he could run and, in truth, it was impossible to escape _himself_. Now he was trapped in London for the foreseeable future; M had already advised Alec that he was not returning to the field until the paperwork he had neglected for the past eight missions was complete and Medical had cleared him to resume active duty. 

The lift doors opened; Alec finally met Bond’s gaze with a sardonic smile, gesturing his best friend to precede him. “After you.”

James raised an eyebrow but stepped into the lift. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he unlocked and glanced at it. The doors closed as the corners of James’ mouth turned up.

Alec shook his head in amusement as he watched James’ fingers flitter over the screen. He had no doubt as to whose words had resulted in the soft smile on the other agent’s face. Even so, he couldn’t resist the opening.

“I had no idea you were so found of M. Or is it Tanner?” Alec teased.

“Not hardly, James scoffed. “If anything, I plan to avoid those two as long as possible.” James pocketed the device once more before reaching to press the button for the main lobby. 

“Hmm...I'm guessing you didn't give them a choice before you left to retrieve your boat?”

“Now why would you say that?” James smirked as the doors opened in the main lobby.

“Because I know you, Jamsey. I've known you for years and you _never_ pass on an opportunity to sail. 

“I also bloody well know you are _still_ in the doghouse for hieing off on an unsanctioned mission with the Quartermaster that resulted in said Quartermaster and yourself being named traitors.”

“M will get over it.” The smirk grew.

“And Tanner?” Alec asked with a grin of his own.

James winced and his stride faltered halfway to the security checkpoint. 

“Tanner is another story. I’ll go bring him a nice bottle of scotch.” Abruptly, he turned and stalked towards the street-level entrance.

Alec couldn’t hold back is laughter at the speed with which Bond headed for the exit. “And don’t forget a bottle of Стандарт платина. None of that Yank swill made with corn!”

Bond flipped the bird in Alec's direction as he pushed through the doors and exited into the weak winter London sun, leaving Alec alone.

~~~~~

Alec had just completed his third After Action Report when the door the the cupboard MI6 jokingly considered a shared office for the Double Os creaked open. A calloused hand holding a bottle of Russian Standard Vodka, Platinum edition, by the neck appeared through the crack.

“I see you survived Tanner,” Alec observed, leaning back in his chair with a smile. 

“And M.” James smirked as he shouldered the door the rest of the way open and stepped in. He nudged the door shut once more as he set the bottle of liquor down. A smile quirked his lips as he perched next to it on the corner of the desk. “Which mission?” he asked, nodding at the AAR on the desktop monitor.

“Dushanbe, which segued into Samarkand and from there to Ashgabat for a package and intel on our friends in Tehran. I’d say it was fun but…”

“You didn’t get to blow anything up?” Bond asked with an innocent expression.

“You know me well, мой брат.” Alec grinned up at his oldest friend. It felt good to be back, even if was back was in the paperwork armpit of MI6.

“How many more AARs do you have to complete?” Blue eyes glinted mischievously; Bond was well aware of Alec's distaste for administrivial forms.

Groaning, Alec saved and closed the report without submitting it. He preferred a final readover with fresh eyes before putting anything officially on record. He had once misstated that a junior agent had been intimate with a donkey instead of intimidated. While amusing in retrospect, it had hardly been worth the additional paperwork, chewing out by a very pissed off M, and three days of sexual harassment training he’d had to endure. 

The training had been an utter waste of time. He knew how to harass people before the training — thank you very much — and he had missed backing up 007 on an early assignment in Montenegro that had changed everything.

“Enough to know they will not all be done today. After all, most of them have waited for weeks, a few more days won’t kill anyone.” Alec grunted. “Though if I don’t take a break, _I_ may.”

“Well, I was on my way to the shooting range if you’d like to join me.” James raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Fuck, yeah!” Alec snatched the bottle of vodka off the desktop and gave it a long considering look before locking it away in the bottom desk drawer. Hitting the power button on the PC to shut it off, he stood abruptly, chair rolling back and hitting the wall.

Bond laughed at Alec's haste and rose from where he was perched, leading the few steps to the door. “No wonder IT hates you.”

Pointedly, Alec paused and unholstered his Glock, checking the magazine before looking back at his long-time friend.

James snorted in response, his hand on the door handle when Alec felt his mobile vibrate.

Reholstering the Glock, Alec dug his mobile from his inner jacket pocket as he followed Bond down the hallway to the stairwell leading down two flights to the shooting range. Unlocking the screen, Alec took the steps on autopilot as he scanned the text message. 

And stopped. 

“Alec?” From the landing below, James glanced up over his shoulder. 

Pocketing his phone, Alec forced a smile he knew fooled absolutely no one and joined Bond at the landing door. Once through, however, he split off and turned opposite the direction of the shooting range, mumbling, “I’ll...uh...meet you at the range. There’s a stop I need to make.” 

He could feel Bond’s curious stare as he walked away.

~~~~~

Alec was leaning casually against the wall next to the Armoury, tucked away in a little used hallway at the other end of the floor from the more popular shooting range. He watched the floor indicator as the lift ascended from Q Branch on the lowest level of MI6.

The summons from Ruksana in Q Branch was vague and caused unease to swirl in his gut. The basement corridor where he stood was little used and poorly lit; the red light on the single closed circuit camera had blinked out shortly after his arrival. 

In times past, any person able to access a given level would have felt secure anywhere in MI6 their ID badge granted access. MI6 was a secure building and only those with the highest clearance had access. Those days had vanished in the aftermath of Silva’s assault. These days nobody, not even a Double O, felt invincible or that HQ was impervious. 

Never before had Q Branch ordered him to the Armoury; mission kits were distributed in Q Branch, presumably to limit the potential of light-fingered agents leaving with more equipment than they were assigned for each mission. Add to that M benching 006 and the situation grew more curious by the moment.

The lift doors opened, revealing a typically disheveled Quartermaster. Without planning to, Alec found himself straightening his posture. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he unbuttoned his tailored jacket and adjusted his cuffs out of habit.

Seeming self-conscious, Q dragged his fingers through the unruly locks of hair that poked out every which way before tugging at the hem of his buttoned cardigan as he stepped of the lift.

An uncertain smile curved Q’s mouth and his movements were stiff as he approached. Alec studied him but could not determine if the halting motions were due to nerves or something else.

Alec straightened his shoulders and stepped next to where Q stopped beside the Armoury door. “R said you wanted to see me, sir.”

With a tight smile, Q nodded and turned to disengage a complicated series of locks that included a swipe of his ID badge, thumb and retinal scans, voice recognition, and finished with an eleven digit code entered on the numeric keypad. The door’s locking mechanism released with a series of audible click before swinging open.

Alec stared, disbelieving, as Q smirked at him. “Seriously, Q? Don’t you think that might be overkill?” 

A startled laugh and wide smile was the last response Alec expected to his semi-mocking tone, but somehow the surprised amusement caused Q to relax before his eyes.

“I’ll tell you what I told another Double O who once asked the same. That depends on if we want to access my latest and greatest, now doesn’t it?” Q pushed the door open, leading the way into Q Branch’s vaunted technology vault.

The motion-activated lights came up as they entered. Alec stopped a few steps in as the door closed behind them. Turning all he saw were unlabeled, brushed steel cabinets lining the walls. Like most agents, he had never actually been inside the Armoury and so didn't know what to expect. The running joke amongst the Double Os was that the Armoury housed Q Branch's most valuable assets — Q's stash of tea.

Ignoring the cabinets that lined both walls, Q led the way to the workbench centered along the back wall. 

Alec watched with narrowed eyes as Q gave a mischievous grin before effortlessly raising the sturdy-looking top of the workbench, revealing a compartment filled with varying sizes of rectangular mission kit cases. In a sotto voice, Q informed him, “This is my secret stash of new equipment that is still undergoing final prototyping. Aside from myself, only you and James are aware of its existence.”

Surprised, Alec just stared, speechless. Q was trusting _him_ with something only James knew about. Alec tried to think of something, anything, to say but came up empty while Q rooted around in the previously hidden storage space.

“Ah-hah,” Q crowed, standing and pushing his glasses back up his nose with one finger, while ignoring the fringe that flopped over the black frames. Turning, he met Alec’s gaze steadily, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.

“Here,” he said softly and pressed a thin case into Alec’s hands. “I understand you’ve been made aware of this tool. I expect you to use discretion in its use as it’s _not_ a toy; I don’t care what you bloody Double Os think.”

Q’s glare was stern but his eyes sparkled as he released the case and turned back to lower the workbench top.

Alec turned the case over in his hands, looking for some indication of what it contained, but there were no markings on the shiny black resin surface.

“Are you going to open it or just stare at the pretty case? If I had know the case was all you wanted, I could have saved myself some effort.” The humor in the Quartermaster’s voice prompted Alec to open the hinged case.

Inside, nestled securely in black sponge padding, lay a silver and ebony Mont Blanc fountain pen and an elegant set of platinum cufflinks.

Alec felt his eyes go wide as he looked up. 

“Q...”

“I or 007 can brief you on how to activate and trigger them. Use them in good health, 006.”

“I don’t...why...I thought…” Guilt-ridden, Alec fell speechless and stared into hazel eyes filled with sincerity.

Q huffed softly, “James was right.” He paused before reaching out to deliberately rest his left hand on Alec's forearm, squeezing lightly.

Alec stared at the formerly damaged hand — now healed — long fingers pale against the dark pinstripes of his suit jacket.

“I don’t blame you, Alec. You were doing your job — serving Queen and country— even as it was tearing you apart. I’m sorry we didn’t read you in from the start, or even when you were reaching out early on. If there was anyone here at HQ that I knew we could trust, it was you. I’m sorry.”

~~~~~

“I simply do not understand.” Tanner shook his head, raising his glass to quaff the twenty year old single malt Scotch he had ordered upon arriving. “I mean, Pierson was enough of a narcissistic arse that his betrayal doesn’t surprise me in the least, but Dennis?”

Alec’s mouth curved into a mirthless smile of silent support as his eyes flickered between the Chief of Staff, his own half-empty glass of top shelf vodka, and the entrance to the pub. 

The Sticky Thistle had become the unofficial go-to place for drinks after work. Alec suspected it was popular with MI6 partly because not only was it near Headquarters, but also because, as a bar with premium liquor and a low-key atmosphere, it was an ideal place to relax with friends and coworkers and blow off some steam before heading home.

The fact that the proprietor was a retired field agent who had given the last M a comprehensive tour of the establishment and all its anti-surveillance perks while it was under construction had all but ensured the perpetual support of MI6 staff.

Alec had encountered Tanner following an exhilarating afternoon spent first at the MI6 range, then sparring in the gym. A new class of recruits had recently graduated and Alec and James still liked to set the bar for incoming agents. Between clearing the air with Q and the brilliant workout with James, Alec felt more at ease than he had in months

Overall, MI6 was in bit of a tizzy, torn between joy at the recovery and return of _two_ Quartermasters — only briefly — and stunned disbelief at the traitorous misdeeds of both a top executive and a ranking member of Q Branch. Unsurprisingly, M’s right hand was feeling it more than most.

“I suppose you never really know people in our business, do you?” Tanner mused, staring balefully at the dwindling contents of his glass.

“Some you do,” Alec allowed, a genuine smile forming as he watched James escort Q through the tables to where they sat in a back corner. He raised a hand to get the harried waiter’s attention.

Before long, a fresh round of drinks was being set down when activity near the pub’s entrance caught Alec's attention once more.

Ruksana smiled and waved before heading over to the bar to request what Alec knew would be a seltzer water with a twist of lime. She had been adamant about joining them despite having a mission to support in a few hours.

Standing, Alec gave her his chair before purloining another from a nearby table. “So, Ruksana,” he queried. “How are you adjusting to your return to the relative obscurity of ‘R’?”

“It’s brilliant. Thank God Q’s back!” She gushed then blushed. “I _really_ just want to do my job and not have to deal with all the bureaucratic rubbish.” Belatedly remembering her audience, Ruksana glanced sheepishly at Tanner. 

“No offence, sir.”

“None taken, Ruksana,” Tanner smiled indulgently. “For all that you performed admirably as Q, it has been quite evident you lack fondness for administrative paperwork — as your own languishes incomplete for weeks and your subordinates have learned you rarely enforce its completion.”

Q groaned out loud at the realisation that he likely had weeks — possibly months — of administrative paperwork to be wrangled from his staff and agents.

Alec chuckled and glanced at James, remembering multiple After Action Reports awaiting his attention back at HQ. Raising his glass in Q’s direction, he toasted. “To unfinished paperwork, may it not bury us before our time.”

_fini_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this tale has ended. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who read, kudo'd and commented. I hate how long this lingered but I really, really wanted the ending to be worth the wait. I hope you agree it was.
> 
> A very special thank you to @BootsnBlossoms, @terpinleather and @Mistflyer1102 as they encouraged, beta-ed and supported me through this unintentionally multi-year journey.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading!


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